


Tears Upon Old Scars

by percyval



Series: Tears Upon Old Scars (Rought Draft) [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: 70s/80s, Angst, Based heavily on Portugal by Walk the Moon, Death, Homophobic Language, M/M, No War in Particular, Self-Harm, Sex, Sexual Content, Suicide Attempt, Tragic Romance, War AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-06-04 14:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 43,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6662656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/percyval/pseuds/percyval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all of us were lucky to have our people returned from the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Not all of us were lucky.

A ringing silence hushes the courtyard, and I stand with dozens upon dozens of widows, family members, the like. I am standing alongside my mother and father. My brother, taken by a gunshot to the head. He rested among thousands of other fallen soldiers, their coffins sometimes holding bodies, bricks, clothes. But all were topped with the Union Jack. Organized, morbid, perfect for American photos the press loved to churn out for the profit. People love to feel sorry for people they will never feel the pain of, just to make themselves feel more human.

And now, they salute the fallen men, and I watch the ground, unpenetrated by the sudden rainfall. A perfect time for it, of course.

My mother dries her eyes on a lace handkerchief, and my father simply stands with his hands behind his back, letting the rain pour onto his suit. He watches straight ahead, not one emotion wrinkling his face.

I do not feel the pain anymore, it's been weeks since he died. I'm done coping. I'm done feeling hurt and upset.

We walk out. Their coffins are going to be driven to a veteran cemetery, and we're not going to visit. Because we're not going to want to relive any moment of the past year. Not since the day my brother left, confidant he'd return with a smirk on his face, having done his country proud.

Before we have the chance to leave, my mother runs into one of her closest friends--Alexandra Spencer. Mother of one of a boy I'd worked hard on avoiding based off of principal alone.

James, surely enough, is behind her. He is dressed head to toe in black, looking like an utter tragedy. They lost Elliot Spencer, his dad.

And James isn't taking it well. He simply looks over at me, from my dad to my mum and back to me.

I'm basically let off with him whenever it's convenient. And right now, it must be _highly_ convenient.

James isn't perky at the moment, and for once I don't feel quite so indifferent to him. I more or less feel upset with him, even if I'm not expressing it beyond a near-nonexistent frown. Hopefully, it helps.

He gives me a sorrowful look, but then he attempts to put that same go-lucky smile on his face again. Just to keep me from feeling sorry for him.

"Well, I'd better start getting prepared to be sent off," he says, voice quivering while his lips curl down into a horrifically broken, crying mess.

I lean forward, looking him right in his woe-dripping eyes. He looks away from me, covering his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut tight enough to cause him more tears from sheer pain alone.

James looks back at me, his eyes meeting mine. They're red, enhancing the green-brown color in his irises. Actually, they are quite pretty, tear-stained and all. His smirk is preferable, however. But it may not come back for seasons, and it is now my responsibility to cheer him up, I presume.

A set of chapel bells chime out two o'clock, and my mother and Alexandra Spencer are still chatting together. If I could make them cut their conversation short, I would. Because not everyone is in the mood to stay and watch their feet as the rain drenches us.

I can't stand here anymore.

Mum and Dad are too invested to have their spell broken, so I take James into the chapel, hiding the both of us from the rain under my umbrella.

I wasn't proud to be cheering up James, but I didn't have too much of a choice. Wait outside, shivering, or go inside and actually talk to James. And I, less than proudly, chose the latter.

James looked over me, and smirked. Hopefully this one would last longer.

"You're lovely for doing this, Alastair." His voice quivers, either from the previous sobbing or the rain that had buried deep into his jacket.

I shake my head, and he insists I'm kinder than he remembered. Thanks, James.

"Who did you lose?"

No regard for sensitivity either, I assume.

"My brother," my voice shivers like my shoulders. James doesn't flinch at it, but I can't get over how terrible it sounds.

"I'm so sorry."

For once, he seems legitimately apologetic, and I even feel distressed that I had to drag him into my drama. He has other matters to worry about, like his own father's death.

"Alastair, if you ever want help, I'm right here, only a few blocks down the road. Visit, it'd be good for us to have each other to talk to."

I shake my head, but James doesn't accept that. In fact, he persists.

"Please, we're both incredibly lonely, I can't imagine you'd like being alone _all_ the time."

Actually, I do like being alone, studying, watching the world turn outside my window. It's easier than accepting I do not have a life outside of studying to get into a college I will never attend. Not if the war continues and I am drafted. Killed, due to lack of experience. That brings tears to my eyes and causes my heart to clench--I don't want to see the day where I must go to war.

James notices that I am starting to shake. He sits closer, resting his hand on my shoulder.

"Alastair, are you alright?" He asks, looking over me with concerned eyes. "Why are you crying? What's wrong?"

James tries to comfort me, knowing that same fear.

"You're worried about going to fight, aren't you?" He nods, sitting back, looking up at the grand stain glass windows, all telling one unfamiliar story of the Bible after another.

"Are you going to go, James?" I ask, my eyes staring past him at a boat stained glorious pinks, blues, and greens. Below it, a crisp, white light starts shining over James's head, and the sun begins emerging from behind the rain clouds.

"I hope not. It is unpatriotic to not be expecting and welcoming the prospect of dying for this country. I cannot imagine it being a long war for me, I can only expect that I will die the moment my foot touches the battleground. Shot through about thirty times, innards flying out in every direction, my blood splattering upon other soldiers."

How could he conjure up such a grotesque picture of his death? How long had he been thinking this over?

I lean in closer to him, now our thighs touch when he lets his legs sit open. He stares forward, the hundreds of photos of decorated, now fallen, soldiers sit where a coffin would be, had this been a typical funeral. Flowers, garlands and wreaths and straight vases with yellow pansies flaring out sat all around the pictures. The memorial would sit a while, occasionally another ten or twenty photos of straight-faced men would join them. More families would gather to grieve, all while blaming the war for their horrific luck to have lost a young man or husband or son to bloody battle.

James locks his eyes on a portrait of a man. One with a stern-square jaw and steely green eyes, looking quite unlike James himself.

"I loved him. My mum said I used to despise him, call him 'despicable,' but I loved him. Sorry, Dad." James apologises to his father's portrait, held in a heavy, gold-painted frame.

My brother sat off a few pictures away, and I went to stare at his portrait. _Lewis_.

I couldn't let myself cry like this. Not in front of James, especially not when the worst was already long over.

"Alastair?"

James stands beside me, giving his silent condolences to my brother. He places a cross over his chest, and sighs.

"My mother is going to be in any minute to fetch me. I'd like to see you again, my friend." He smiles. A sincere, an "I-want-to-help-you-out" smile.

I turn to James, his smile fading until I wrapped my arms around him, hugging him. An embrace that felt almost too natural. One that felt comfortable. Even familiar, if I wanted to stretch that far.

James rested his chin on my shoulder, and my face remained buried in his.

He pulled his face away, one hand now resting where his chin had been.

"Write to me, alright?" He smiles, patting my shoulder while I try to comprehend that I was hugging James, he comforted me when just moments before I was on the verge of tears.

I go up to the prayer box, grabbing a small pen and papers, writing out my address, leaving the extra paper on the podium for James to write his own.

We say our last goodbyes, while we go out to find our parents more than distressed.

Mum teases me, asking if I'd been discussing anything with James. His address, tucked in my trousers pocket, seems to radiate the warmth of his hand once she brought him up.

I shake my head, leaving her to guess for an eternity what we'd talked about.

She smiles, patting me on the thigh as we are escorted home. I turn to the window, my eyes squinting up at the too-bright sun that blurred my vision. Like the halo of light around his head in the chapel.

I am going to write him tonight. All of what he missed when I cut him out of my life those years ago. Back when I was small and foolish, when he had been a nuisance and I just wanted to read in my backyard.

Time has changed him, quite miraculously, even.

I remove a pen from my desk, scrambling to find paper, even a blank page of a book, anything to contact him.

My mother's journal is out on the end table of their bedroom, the one Father reads without her permission. He knows every little thing about her life, while neither of them knew a solitary detail about mine outside of my marks in school. Hopefully, that will all be over soon. I can go about my own life, independent of school and working for my education.

I lock myself back up in my bedroom, overlooking the ocean.

_Back when James and I were younger, we ran out into the tide, trying to outrace the water. We never admitted defeat, even when the ice-cold water lapped at our ankles and we screamed from the shock._

_James made us stop after a while, and then we sat out on the grainy sand, holding our knees and being chilled by the sea breeze, sun beating down on our skin. The water dulled out the noise of our exhausted breathing._

_He grinned over at me, and tackled me down into the rough ground, pinning me down._

_I simply laughed, quite unsuspecting of what would happen next. Then, he leaned down._

I don't remember what happened next. While I doubt James remembers, I now have a letter to write.

* * *

_Dear James,_

_How have you been since our last meeting? Not the chapel, before that, of course. I assume you have been alright, at least, you were before you lost your father._

_I have been fine--studying for college when I doubt I'll get in. Not much else has been going on in my life otherwise._

_Do you remember the day we were playing on the shore? I remember it up to a point. You pinned me down into the sand, and then I can't remember what you did afterwards._

_I hope you have given me the correct address, and that you can answer my question. Because I cannot even remember half of our memories together, and I am sure you can._

_\- Alastair M._


	2. Chapter 2

I leave my room early one morning, expecting to get the mail before my father approaches the door to collect it.

The mail slot, a tad bit traditional for our otherwise modern house, creaks as if it had lost its will to live, and mail pours in. I grab the first few envelopes, expecting to find a letter from James. _Anything_ explaining to me what had happened that day that I forgot.

However, I reach the bottom of the pile of mail, and find absolutely nothing. Not one letter written out to me, sent from only a few blocks away by a boy I, only yesterday, hated.

I sigh, and set the mail on the kitchen table, going in to get lovely tap water.

Still, I am somehow small enough to fit on the kitchen counter without hitting my head on the ceiling lamps. I look over the room, waiting until Mum or Dad come in to expect the mail. Not for another few minutes they're not coming in, so I let myself speak freely for only a moment or two.

"My name is Alastair MacIntosh, I'm sixteen, son of Franklin Macintosh and Norma Willingsly," I say quietly, my voice crackling as if I had the cold. A quiet knock on the door alarms me.

I flop onto the ground, bare feet padding on the linoleum until I reach the forgiving shag carpet. _Chic_ , my mum would call it.

As I turn to open the doorknob, a familiar face beams in my eyes.

"Hello, I want to speak to your mother. We have to go antiquing today and I told her to get up early."

Alexandra Spencer. I was hoping it would be James.

I still allow her in, and offer her water, tea, coffee, the like. She asks, actually quite politely, for water with ice.

Mum comes down only a minute later, and I come back in, holding the glass, leaving mine on the counter in the kitchen. My mum sits down with her, and tells her that she had forgotten, but will get ready in a moment. So, I'm left again with Alexandra.

"James has been talking about you again. He didn't stop bringing you up until a few months ago, when you two hadn't spoken in a year."

I smile a little, and she smiles back.

"Do you have a telephone? He's been trying to convince us to buy one, and I'm sure it's because he wants to talk to you." She grins, and I shake my head. I don't want to speak to her. I rarely ever want to speak, anyway.

Alexandra drains her glass of water, and I sit back against the kitchen counter. We have a telephone--but I am afraid to call James. What would we talk about? I work better when I'm given enough time to think over what I want to say.

What would I even want to say to James?

I now have something to think about, while Alexandra waits for my mum to finish getting ready. My arms cross over my chest, and I close my eyes. Once she and Mum leave, I'll be able to be left alone, left in peace. No thanks to the thoughts of James racing in my head.

"It's been a while since you two hung out. He's been wanting to see you again for a while."

For a while, I don't even respond. I can feel her eyes on me, but what do you say to that?

' _Me too, I think about him all the time?_ '

' _No, I haven't thought about him in over a year?_ '

There's no way I'm leaving this conversation without pissing her off. So I just shrug.

She doesn't quite like that.

"Oh, it's a shame. James misses you."

I look away, glancing back at my crossed arms while she goes on about James. I shouldn't have said anything, or shrugged my shoulders. I roll my ankles, and look over the room again. Anxiety rises up in my chest, and I have no clue why.

"Alright, let's go," my mother steps in, dressed like a typical housewife. Quite over that mourning. I'd think that she would wear at least a smidge of black, but it seems that slipped her mind. I watch from the kitchen, sipping my now lukewarm tap water, and I keep watch until they leave.

A letter pops through the mail slot. And a small laugh follows.

I leave to the door, and James is standing in all black, still smiling like his whole world wasn't just changed only weeks before. The letter sticks out of my grip, and he motions to it.

"I thought it right to deliver it to your doorstep."

James gives a small smirk, and I check behind him. Mum and Alexandra left, so I could only assume he hid himself in the bushes at the side of the house.

He seems proud of himself for _something_ , though I'm unsure what. I watch him for a moment, then motion for him to come in.

"Sure, Mum won't be back for a while." He walks in, and I get him water.

James mulls over his drink, and stares into it a while. He seems lost in thought, and for once, I understand. We sit in the kitchen for a while, and I try to cheer him up, even a bit. A sad, silent James is less than desirable.

"Did you miss me?"

He smiles gently, likely at my weak voice. He sits up slightly, and grins at me, finally.

"So much. So much so that I was thinking about you daily for months," James admits, his eyes setting off a warmth.

"Same here," I lie through my teeth.

I cannot recall why I started hating James, but it seemed to come all of a sudden and it didn't leave.

Not until I started speaking to James again. Now, honestly, I adore talking to him. It's fun being around him. What had happened so long ago that made me hate him so much?

I can't ask him--it's one of the few things he wouldn't know.

Instead, I decide the conversation should turn light. And he seems to like that idea, as well.

We talk for a few hours, until my father comes downstairs, slippers and dress robe tied round the front. He looks only a bit astonished to see James, and to be honest I am a bit shocked at that.

A year of not constantly seeing him, and it's just like every other day before we broke off our friendship? I don't know.

It seems like any other day, honestly. It's just that James is here, and that's odd. I am quite used to just accepting changes into my life, seeing how few changes ever occur in my life, but otherwise, still a typical day. Refusing to go outside, despite the typically alright weather. And, I think James has been outside enough this morning. So we move out into the basement, chilling my bare skin. He takes his shoes off once we're comfortably situated on the ground, propped up on decor pillows.

"It's been strange not having you to talk to," he admits. "It was like not having anyone at all who got me. I know you might not, but you're good enough."

I roll my eyes, and he grins, hitting me in the arm in that playful way that doesn't hurt. We look at each other, then back at the ceiling. The water heating tubes and all the other ugly wires and pumps sticking out from the rafters like the surgical tubes my brother likely had when he was struggling to live.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and my breathing becomes rough. I can't even think properly.

James sits up, and monitors me.

"Alastair?"

His face flashes, white and beaming inside my eyelids. It hurts. He must have _hated_ me when he passed, if he wants to go and haunt me like this right now. Once I'm able to open my eyes again, James is kneeling over me, holding my cheeks and asking if I'm alright.

"Yeah," I bark out, quietly. He smiles, and looks thoroughly relieved.

"Thank God, I thought you'd gone delusional."

 _How observant_ , I grin to myself.

Actually, it's not too bad.

It's not too bad being around someone who talks to you even when you barely respond, who will still pursue friendship when you broke it off.

It's not too bad having James around again.


	3. Chapter 3

Once he has left, I open the letter. I tucked it in my back pocket, and now I remove it, a day long over.

The sun set hours ago, and now is the proper time to read it.

I curl up into my bed, bringing a torch with me. As I open it, I get uneasy.

What will he say? Is he going to deny anything ever happened on the shore? Will he avoid the question? Is the piece of paper in my hand blank?

I tell myself to get a grip, and I glance over it.

Scribbly handwriting. My third suspicion is no longer valid. As I scan the page, I try to piece everything together in my head, but nothing actually fits.

* * *

_Dear Alastair,_

_It's me! James! Ha, this letter-writing stuff is kind of fun, honestly. Especially to someone who can't talk for shit._

_I've been doing pretty alright without you, but it is a perk being able to talk with you again. These past few days, having you back around has really helped._

_I won't go into anything sinister and dark, but just know my dad's passing wasn't easy on any of us. But, I'm starting to feel a little better now. At least enough to where I can smile again._

_It's great speaking again, or, writing, I assume. ~~I really have missed you.~~ That sounds desperate, I think._

_Anyway, your question. About the shore._

_I barely remember what happened that led up to the event you started describing. Honestly, I first thought you'd made it up until you jogged my memory (thank you for that, by the way)._

_My mother told me that we simply had been wrestling, nothing more. I don't fully believe that, but she won't tell me otherwise. She says we used to be like that, boys who were rough and hurt each other for fun. Maybe it has been so long that I can't remember being like that._

_I know, anti-climatic, I bet. But, that's all I can gather about that day._

_How old were we? I know I was about sixteen then, maybe. No, seventeen. I keep forgetting it was only a year ago. You were fifteen. I think I still have your school picture from then (your mum gave it to my mum, and she gave it to me after a while), I'm going to give it back, seeing as I won't need it anymore._

_That might be about all I have to say. Hm. We'll find more to talk about later, I'm certain._

_\- James S._

_P.s., you look like a nerd in the photo. Ha!_

* * *

Surely enough, my school picture from year 9 is attached. I haven't a clue what to think. My hair is longer, in my eyes, behind some quite horrific frames. I'm sure I've gotten better frames for my glasses since then, I'm a little distressed knowing that's the only memory James had of how I looked for a while.

I laugh a little, the slightest bit, and even _that_ feels like much. The picture gets thrown into my drawer, until I decide to respond to his letter.

My heart flutters, but I'm unsure what for. I peak out the window, through the nearly-transparent curtain, and see a girl on a bicycle, riding past into the inky black night. What is she doing?

Returning home? Escaping from home? What _did_ she do? Did she upset her parents?

Did they learn of her lover, who was meant to be secret? She looked perfectly carefree when riding by, that can't be it. I let myself keep thinking over it, until eventually my mind becomes consumed on another subject.

 _Wrestling_. That doesn't sound right, in any respect. More or less, it sounds completely wrong. James and I weren't violent, even a year ago.

And I know all about how only a year can completely change someone.

We used to talk to each other, and then lie in silence while watching the sky and thinking to ourselves. Sometimes he'd pipe up, tell me about a thought he'd had, or a question he was pondering. I'd always listen, and I'd always respond in some way; a nod, or otherwise.

James liked to talk. He always had something to say, even if now we can barely carry a conversation. He'd tell me about his school, about his friends and all the shit they got into with the school head. Or about his dad, and how they got on better than even his closest of friends.

Now, however, it seems that he's set his sights back on me as a close friend.

He steps back into my life, and I allow him to. Because God knows I hate being alone.

We both bond, over what we do, and don't, say.

I turn off the light, and force myself into bed. To think about anything else before I go to sleep, so he can't plague my dreams and cause my mind more grief. Last time I dreamed about him, I felt incredibly uncomfortable afterwards. My mum was embarrassed to find me in such a state--groaning and holding my head in my hands as I tried to will away an erection. I haven't a clue what happened in the dream, but it certainly wasn't something that I'd commonly dream of.

Maybe one day I'll have the courage to tell James I have popped a boner dreaming about him. But that'll be a day when I am no longer ashamed of that memory, when I can laugh it off and think nothing of it. Right now, that memory is making my heart race and my cheeks flare up into pink mists across my cheeks.

If I ever admitted that's what happened, Mum and Dad would sit me down at the kitchen table for a talk. I'd pick at the carved and scratched table, murmuring answers to their nosy questions while I dreaded the scene to come to a curtain-flourish finish.

"You can't control your dreams, son, but we're going to see if a doctor can see you about this." Dad would reassure me.

Mum would chime in. "You can't know this kind of thing right now. You're so young, Alastair, you might as well just try with girls until you figure it all out. It's likely just a phase, you'll be fine."

Even with some of the most new age-seeming parents a boy could have, I'd chime in with my raspy drawl of a voice.

"No, I don't know. But what if I am queer? What if I do like boys, and I'd rather fuck one every night like you want me to with a girl? I don't care. Right now, I don't care at all. One day I might, and I might end up with a boy who loves me and treats me well, or I might end up with a girl who I accidentally knock up one night because we're drunk and I'm too lazy to fish a condom out the drawer." I'd sit back, and stare at them with an emotionless gaze, glancing between them while their jaws literally hang open like a cartoon character's.

They'd disown me, I'm certain of that much.

I squeeze my eyes shut, looking past the images of my brother, of all of the people I don't want to think of right now. I look right into James's eyes. The color escapes me. I believe it brown-green, some light version of it. They shimmer like a lake lodged deep in a forest, overpopulated with algae and dead leaves skimming the surface. They crinkle at the edges when he smiles, and then he closes them. There's a light behind him, and it's obscured by him.

Warmth encases me, and I can feel my arms try to break free and circle round him like some thick snake. He forces my arms back down, and I whine a near-silent moan. What is he doing? This has to be the memory, what happened that day on the shore.

But then he comes back up, to the sound of screaming. His dad picks him up by the wrists, and demands to know "what the fuck you were doing?" He yells, and James's whole body blushes. Sand cakes his palms, and even became trapped in his hair. Dad picks me up, and my brother looks a bit confused.

"I didn't know," he whispers, eyes large and horrified.

But what had we done?

I rake my brain, trying to place that warmth I felt, to figure out what he'd been doing that I was so enraptured with.

I _have_ to know.


	4. Chapter 4

James and I meet outside the town square the next morning. It's foggy and dreary, just as I expected.

He's tightly curled into a coat, and the tip of his nose is just now turning a faint red. I stand close, and watch him as he chooses where we should go. His brow furrows, and he looks over each store.

I adjust my glasses, and read all the store fronts.

Boutiques, shoe shops, hat stores, and a bookstore.

I point in the direction of _Myrtle's Memory Lane_ , a place of vintage penny dreadfuls and other classic works of literature. I've been here before, at least I think. I believe I've bought a novel here that I found stupefyingly boring. So much so I threw it into a bin of books beneath my bed that I haven't touched in ages.

Though, all the books I hide under my bed are scandalous to a degree. And all happen to be gay in theme or subtext.

Why do I read this? Especially when I want to appear to be totally asexual?

I look over at James, and he grins at me.

"Wanna get books?"

I shrug.

James leads us into the bookstore, and we stand in the doorway, looking over the relatively small shop. I rush off into a fiction section, and he follows, laughing a bit to himself. A bit like a cackle.

The woman behind the counter, obviously _not_ Myrtle, watches us, without saying a word. Likely a good tactic.

I kneel down, thumbing through the spines until I pick out something interesting. When I stand up, James plucks it from my grip and looks it over.

" _A Single Man_?" He flips the gently-worn novel over in his hand, and reads over the bio on the back.

"I heard someone talk about it a while back. . ." I feel like I've been judged and found out.

He smiles, and hands it back, and I notice he popped his collar when I wasn't looking. I flatten it back down, and he fakes a frown. James and I explore the rest of the store, and he ends up picking up an anatomy book.

"Now, a single man particularly enjoys playing with hiiiiis," he trails off as he points at a drawing of a flaccid penis. He's being quite open with me, and I can say it is quite a lot more fun than I imagined.

I place my finger over, and wiggle it. He laughs gently, and gently shuts it, letting me remove my hand before he puts it back on its shelf.

We find a little nook towards the back of the store, and James settles in, drawing out his arms and motioning for me to join him. I curl up beside him, pressed right against him as we coil up into the corner. He looks over my book as I open it on my lap.

" _Waking up begins with saying_ am _and_ now," he recites, in an all-too-posh tone, grinning like a proud cat. " _That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized_ I, _and therefore deduced_  I am, I am now."

I listen to him read, and he takes the book from my lap, not without letting his knuckles trail across my thighs as he does so.

I let myself become absorbed in his reading, the words passing his teeth and his enunciation on every word that doesn't need it. His brow furrows and rises in shock whenever he finds it funny, and I let a grin play on my lips. He doesn't notice until he turns to me, and it has already faded.

" _-as though the track had disappeared down a landslide. It is here that he stops short and knows, with a sick newness, almost as though it were for the first time: Jim is dead. Is dead_." James stops reading, his voice pauses, and he looks down into the blocky, printed text.

I look his face over. Something is quite wrong.

"Jam-"

" _He stands quite still, silent, or at most uttering a brief animal grunt, as he waits for the spasm to pass. Then he walks into the kitchen. These morning spasms are too painful to be treated sentimentally. After them, he feels relief, merely. It is like getting over a bad attack of cramp._ "

He dives back into reading, and I can only feel a bit off-put by his sudden stop after the last passage.

James reads to me a while longer, until we notice a few more people entering the store and coming upon us, and James's dramatic reading. He stands up, and takes the book up to the counter, while I struggle to get up and follow him.

He seems quite intent on me getting the book, despite having not brought money.

James places a tenner on the counter, and receives change back. The woman at the counter disregards him at first, and then looks between us, before shrugging and handing him the receipt, notes, and coins.

After the transaction, James hands me back the book, the receipt tucked where he'd left off reading. He smiles at me, his calloused fingertip brushing my much softer index finger. James leads us out, and we go over into a cafe.

For the rest of our little trip, he pays for everything, he pays every ounce of attention he can to me. I can't stand it when he has to help me up a step to walk into a record shop, and he leads me back out, almost catching me before I slip onto my arse coming back out. Then he throws a coin into the fountain, making a quick little wish to himself, before we move on.

His lips move fast, I can't make out a word he muttered. By 3 pm, we both decide we've spent a long enough time out.

James walks me back home, and stops on the porch. Before I open the door, I turn round, and I look him in the face. He smiles feebly at me, he is tired and his arches are likely fallen by now.

"Thank you," I hold up the book, and he waves his hand.

"It's nothing. Thank you for hanging out with me again, Alastair."

James looks down at me, and I smile up at him, my mouth twisting up into a weird shape before I pop back inside.

"Bye," I nearly stammer, and he waves goodbye.

The door slams shut, by mistake, of course, and I feel compelled to peak back out and apologise. But, already, he is gone.

I sigh, and I try to slink back into my room, so sly and so ready to disappear for the day until dinner.

However, Dad caught me first.

"What was James doing here with you?" He asks, before ripping the book from my hand.

I try to snatch it back, but he won't let me.

"Alastair, what's going on with you two? I thought you hated him!" He sounds now angered, and I haven't a clue why. Instead, I claim the book again, and shut my door on his face.

I throw it into the box under my bed, and both Mum and Dad enter my bedroom, visibly shocked.

_Oh, fuck._


	5. Chapter 5

"Alastair, you have quite a lot to explain," Mum tells me, quietly. Her voice is no louder than a tense whisper, and already I feel trapped, naked, scared.

What have I done now? Oh god.

I look them both in the face, and I can feel tears building up in my eyes. _No_ , I can't fucking cry. Not in front of them. I can't show weakness.

Dad stands tall and firm, doing his best impression of an oak tree. Mum rests her hand in my hair, and asks me why James was at the door. She doesn't sound sincere, more or less, she wants exact answers.

"We went down to the shops," I explain to my best ability, looking up at her. "Went there at ten and came back just a few minutes ago."

I doubt there was much else to explain, except for the fact he bought me a gay book. And the gracious amount of touching we did.

Dad says nothing, he just looks away, sighing.

"You know, there's a _reason_ we told you to stop seeing James," his voice is cold. "His mother found the letter you sent him, and it seems that you were asking about something we thought you'd forgotten. It's been a year, how can you still remember?" He sits down in my chair, and a horrid creak comes from it. I imagine it collapsing under his weight, but the thought doesn't entertain me like it should.

"That day on the shore, we said you two were wrestling, doing boy stuff." Mum tries to chime in, but she just can't go on. She looks to my dad, and motions at him to continue.

"James had you pinned down."

"I know that."

"And he was _kissing_ you."

And the revelation hits.

That was what I had been trying to remember. The rush of warmth comes back, and the fluttering in my heart starts back up.

James's lips were warm, perfectly smooth and tasted like bubblegum. He used to chew it a lot, and pop it when he wanted to annoy. He was a particularly good kisser, he'd hold me down by my wrists, and I groaned into his mouth while he opened the both of ours. It was my first kiss. He was about to dip his hand down to my shirt, and trail it up beneath the hem, running his fingers along every dent and curve of me.

I can't believe it. That is what had happened. That is what enraged my mother and father, sent James's dad into a screaming rage, and mystified my brother.

I have kissed James. I may have even liked him.

Then why, for so long, have I acted like he was nothing but gunk beneath my shoe?

"We tried to make sure you two didn't speak again, not for a _long_ time. You started to believe you hated him when he wouldn't come see you, and wouldn't speak to you when you saw him out," Dad sighs again, and takes my shoulder.

My face cannot be looking perfectly emotionless. My mouth is hanging the slightest bit open, and I'm sure I have a confused expression spread across my face.

I stand up, and Mum backs up.

"Please. Leave."

My voice is gentle, so they don't take me seriously at first.

"Alastair, please, we want to keep-"

" _Leave_. Get out." It becomes harsher, and I look between the both of them. I want to think I'm snarling, but I am certain I'm not.

They leave me to myself, and I fall onto my bed. So much. Too much for me to even properly think.

I lie on my side, scooted up to the top of my bed, pillows propping my head up so I can look out the window at the grey skies and bare trees. My mind is racing, so harshly and with such a thudding passion I cannot fathom resting. I sit up, and lean over to grab a sheet of paper.

I scribble furiously, and pick out the book. I pick out a passage, and write it down, too, before I tuck the letter into the book.

* * *

_James,_

_We need to talk, as soon as possible. My parents just told me something I can't believe, and I need to tell you what happened. Please get back to me asap. This is highly important to both of us._

_\- Alastair_

_PS - "Yes, alas, now he must spoil everything. Now he must speak."_

* * *

I walk to James's house, and I try to remember which window was his.

I make my way round the house, book tucked into my hand as I look over the windows, trying to place anything that reminds me of James.

The one time I was ever in his room was ages ago, when I slept over at his house while my parents left for a holiday.

I remember it being the second story, and that we curled up in the same bed. Perfectly still, perfectly silent, staring into each other's eyes. 

They were dark then, dark like mine. I watched them in such feverish anticipation. We were both too large to comfortably lie on his bed, even on our sides.

I looked down to his lips, and that night, I held him round his waist while he slept, turned away from me. He pressed close. We slid up close, to protect ourselves from the cold chill brewing outside.

I look through the windows, and I attempted to pick out his window.

Grey curtains pulled shut, a room with no light, and a room with a light shining out. I hear the faintest sound of music pouring out, and decide it has to be James.

I attempt to be discreet, and throw some sticks and pebbles I find throughout the yard. Not one hits his window, but I see him lean over to look outside.

At first, he doesn't see me, and starts to move back to his bed, until I throw another pebble, striking the window a bit too loud. He jumps, and I laugh the slightest bit.

"Alastair?" He questions me, dragging his window open. "It's almost ten. Why aren't you asleep?"

I didn't expect him to memorize my sleeping schedule, but he seems to have had nothing else of importance to remember. He smiles, and I hold up the letter.

"Are you here to deliver a declaration of war? A treaty?" He smirks, and I roll my eyes.

"I found out something," I say. It's dead-quiet in his neighborhood, I barely have to raise my voice.

James cocks an eyebrow, and motions to the sliding door.

"Meet me there."

He sneaks out his bedroom, and meets me at the door quickly. I smile at him, and he looks me over.

"You didn't even change," he refers to my grass-stained pyjamas. "Exciting news?"

We sit down on the back patio, right on the very edge. He leans back on his palms, and I hand him the letter.

"My parents just told me what happened on the shore." I stare up into his face. Curse him, having the gall to be taller than me.

He furrows his brow.

"What do you mean?" He flips his sandy hair out of his face. "My mum told me what happened. Why would they lie about what we did?"

I look down, and my mind reimagines exactly what happened. I don't actually know if my parents were lying, if only because I couldn't conjure up the exact memory on my own. James looks me over, and rests a hand on my shoulder.

That warmth. The warmth that rushed over me like a tide. The same warmth from my memory, that made my cheeks flush the color of roses and my heart speed up like I was running. The scent of bubblegum no longer lingered on him, more specifically his breath. His eyes, glowing even brighter than the moon, reflecting my own.

James smiles, but his brows are arched in a concerned fashion.

"Alastair?" He asks, rubbing his hand up and down the back of my pyjamas.

I shake myself from my giddy fantasizing. He's closer than he was before. I can feel my heart flutter still.

James looks reassuring, and I actually trust the expression, unlike my father's only hours earlier. Only an hour ago did he unveil that secret, the one that made me the burden of the family.

Just because we kissed, however, doesn't mean I love him, or boys at all. It was a fluke. He'd understand that.

I'm such a mess.

"What happened?" He asks, and for once I forget he's now eighteen years old. God, I'd forgotten how old he was.

"We kissed."

He furrows his brow, again, and I can tell he's trying to place what happened, himself.

"A _real_ kiss? Not like on the cheek or anything?"

I shrug, then nod. "I think so. I remember it like that."

James nods, then looks down into his lap.

"Wow."

"Exactly," I say almost under my breath. I lean back on my hands, and James sits up, leaning forward, back almost hunched.

Our breathing is perfectly out-of-sync, and quieter than even the invisible frogs croaking a few feet away. We think, we ponder, just how we always used to.

James breaks the silence, as usual.

"Have you kissed anyone since?" He glances back at me, a sly grin curling on his lips.

I watch him closely, then laugh to myself.

"Sure, I run a kissing booth at school during lunch." I smile at him.

James cackles, and scoots back to make eye contact with me.

"Two more years left in that hell hole. I'm so sorry," he stares right into my eyes. "Got any friends?"

I frown. Then shake my head.

James looks a little saddened. But he perks himself up quickly.

"Not even a casual hookup?" He smirks. I hit him on the arm, and he fakes a little yowl of pain.

"No. I'm totally single and alone." I respond, and James still looks ashamed.

"I hate leaving you alone, Alastair. I can't even do anything to help you. Oh, well. We have all summer," he nudges my arm, and I smile.

I actually feel content.

James is ungodly silent for a while, and he just looks at me. His eyes look tired, and they look as if they are watering. I give him a quick smile.

Before I try and ask him if he is alright, after putting on my own reassurance face, James leans in.

I exhale quickly. What is he doing?

A mantra plays in my head.

_He doesn't mean it, he doesn't mean it, he_ can't _mean it._

My heart races faster than I thought it could. _Why_ is he doing this? I look over him, and he's moving into me at a snail's pace. Why am I _letting_ him do this? It'll only confuse me more. I don't need that.

James grins, and he rests his lips against mine. Really, it's not a kiss. Not until he takes control, and grabs onto my cheek. I support the both of us, sitting up and keeping us afloat.

He tastes different, tastes like cigarette papers and the faintest taste of whiskey. And I must taste like hours-old hot chocolate and toothpaste. James deepens the kiss, I sit back just slightly, and feel him move his hand from my cheek. It slithers down my torso, and he breaks for air only a moment.

When we lock our lips together again, James traces my hip bone with his warm fingers. I can't think straight. He moves us toward the pole of the awning, and I give the smallest moan in response.

Everyone says kisses are electric, but right now, it more or less feels like hot water drowning my lips. I rest my hands around his back.

James lets go after a while, and I stare up at him with a concerned gaze locked onto him. His cheeks are red, and I assume the rest of him looks the same. I kiss him again, quick. He smiles, giving me the smallest peck on my lips.

I feel disoriented, like I'd hit my head on the pole. Despite my head pounding, I stare at him with a drunken look on my face.

By the time his mother is yelling at him to turn his lights off and music down, the moon has risen high in the sky.

"I have to go," I say, my voice nearly-worn and breathy.

He watches me leave, now holding the letter and beginning to open it.

I race home, barely able to see until I reach pools of light from street lights. James's kiss hangs on my lips, they feel hot and slightly swollen.

As I enter the house, I creep past my parents moping in front of the Telly. The light illuminated the high points of their faces, made them look like pale, decaying zombies.

That's just how they seemed before, anyway.

I fall into bed, collapsing hard. Now, I feel light as a feather. All of that anxiety drained the moment James kissed me. Drained like he'd hung me upside down to send a rush of blood to my head.

Now it comes crashing back, my mind becoming an unstable whirlwind. Did he mean that kiss? Was it a joke?

He didn't treat it like a joke. It felt real. But, he could have been doing it to get a rise out of me.

I should feel used. But, oh _God_ , did it feel incredible.

Placing my fingers where his had been did nothing. His touch made all the difference.

The ghost of his touch, his kiss, his breath, it all consumes me. He will need to do that again the next time we meet.


	6. Chapter 6

I wake up thinking of James.

How incredibly pathetic I am, still hanging onto that kiss the moment I feel it play on my lips.

I feel my head pound, and I escape to the bathroom. The pot and alcohol taste of his breath still lingers in my mouth, and I need to clean myself up.

My zombie parents aren't round. They instead sit in the kitchen, munching crisp toast and drinking black coffee. I enter, and let myself have a spring in my step. I pour orange juice, and my mum doesn't look pleased.

"You snuck out last night."

I glance at her, and shake my head.

"I was out front. I needed fresh air."

She glowered.

"I swear to God, Alastair, tell us what you were _actually_ fucking doing." She raises her coffee mug to her lips and finishes it.

I sit against the counter, and fabricate my story.

"My window was jammed last night, and I felt sick. So I went outside, and then I didn't realize how long I'd been sitting out. I spent an hour outside freezing."

I mean, it wasn't exactly untrue. I glance between my parents, and my mum holds up a letter between her fingers.

"James brought it this morning. He wanted to give it right to you, but you were asleep."

I go to take it, and she pulls it away, ripping it open.

* * *

_Dear Alastair,_

_You owe me a tenner for yesterday! It's not nice to not repay your kindest, dearest friend for the book he bought you._

_I am expecting you'll at least lend it to me when you've finished with it. It looks good._

_\- James S._

* * *

Mum is a little less than shocked when she finishes the letter.

"He bought you a book?"

I nod, and go find a random book that looked completely new.

A photography book of Ireland.

I place it on the counter, and Mum flips through it. She looks relieved.

"Oh, thank God," she exclaims, and browses only a moment or two longer before she gives it back. "Lovely book, dear."

I leave. And I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

* * *

 I throw the Ireland book on the floor of my room, and proceed to decide what to do about James.

I can't stop seeing him again, I love being around him and being his friend.

I can't date him. That one is easily out. Because I'm not queer, and neither is James. Plus, no one would accept it.

My only option is to tell him we're friends, but then we kiss and hold each other in private. Keeping up a perfect façade.

I groan to myself, then stare up at the ceiling, blank-faced while my thoughts rage on like a storm.

James seems open-minded. I think he is, at the very least. Well, he's kissed me at least twice before, and now he won't stop talking to me despite the fact.

The sun shines into my room, and I pull out another piece of paper. I curl up deeper into my bed, and I tap my pen against my lip.

I want to see him again, no matter what.

As I write, I believe myself to be hearing something thrown against my window.

I go over, and slide it open. The sun blinds me, but so does a shining halo of reddish hair.

That smug bastard.

I glance out the window, and I notice him smirking. My mind tells me to take a book and chuck it at him for coming over when I'm in trouble for sneaking out to meet him. Another part of me wants to slide down the drain and talk with him. For him to corner me against the side of the house, and tease me while I give that same stupid, dreamy gaze that I did last night. That one that James has likely fallen in love with by now.

He holds a letter. A real letter, one with my name written in scratchy lettering that makes me lighten up a bit.

I try to lean down, and he attempts to chuck it up.

It fails, and collapses into the bushes. He fishes it out, and I decide to get tactful.

I send a string down, with a little clothespin attached to the end.

"Clip it on," I instruct him, as he does just that.

And, as I receive my letter, I clip on my own, the one that I scribbled out and barely remembered.

Once James is holding it, he runs off, and I take back my device.

* * *

How did I forget kissing James? How could I have possibly forgotten something that important, and that major?

Already I've been working my arse off trying to deduce what exactly made me forget, but the answer won't come to me. The scenario keeps playing itself back to me, and it's just as vivid as the moment it first happened. I think, I try to conclude why I'd forgotten that kiss with James.

Never once does it sound right when I come up with ideas.

_Maybe it didn't actually happen. Maybe he lied to you just so he could get the opportunity._

No. That can't be it. He'd never do that to me, he hasn't enough horridness in his being to do such a thing.

_You both covered up the past. Parents probably convinced you that it had been something else entirely, maybe it wasn't a good kiss and you didn't consider that something worth remembering._

That could be it. But if I can remember what his lips tasted like over a year ago, I doubt it wasn't real. I glance up at the ceiling, and exhale. The final conclusion I can make.

_You both remembered._

I didn't think it over for a while, until I thought over the expression he made when I told him that. Like he was faking the expression, like he didn't want to hurt my feelings and make me feel stupid for just bringing my attention to it again.

I could have simply forgotten it in the moment, in those few days I've started talking to James again. Easily I could have just not put it together in the moment.

And I want to say I used to think about it all the time, maybe I just ended up forgetting who kissed me.

I turn over in my bed, and look over the letter. Anything to get my mind back off of the kissing subject.

* * *

_Dear Alastair,_

_My mum is leaving for a holiday, for only a few days. I wanted to know if you'd like to come over at any point, seeing as you seem to have no one else to spend your time with. If you do, or you just don't want to see me so much, I understand. I do hope that you are doing lovely, and that maybe we can see each other soon._

_\- James S._

_P.s., I made up Mum's old room for you, the one she slept in when Dad was still around. Just in case._

* * *

I sit back, and breathe out.

And while my parents will quickly find out what's going on, I'm not particularly worried of them finding out I've been sneaking off to see James. I read it over a few more times, until I choose to lie.

Tonight, they'll curl up in bed at about nine, and I will sneak out. I'll walk to James's house, he'll let me in and we'll do whatever he plans for us to do. Then, I'll come home in the morning, after running round the block once, claiming I'm exercising in the wee hours. Mum will believe me, proud I'm finally getting out of bed and doing something productive over holiday, and Dad will just shrug, since he knows I'm not athletic and I'll give it up soon.

I don't let my mind go back to the memories. Not right now, not until I'm confidant in what I think, and what I actually know.

The clock on my end table tells me it's noon now. A while to wait, but not too long, at least.

* * *

The hours linger on, feeling like centuries that I must pass through. I move from place to place in my room, situating myself in uncomfortable positions.

Why couldn't I just sneak out now? My parents wouldn't notice, I could just slip out the front door, and they'd never know.

Not until they notice me missing from my room and come search for me, however.

I must admit, I'm not exactly a pro at sneaking out, so I just walk out in broad daylight, sure to be silent, then dash down the block. It's like I forgot where James lives until I see him sitting on the front step, kicking a pebble on the ground or just kicking his foot out of boredom.

Ducking for cover in some bushes, I scope him out. The car out front is gone, and it seems like James was debating whether or not to leave.

I notice him look over towards the bushes, and it's in that moment I realise I am terrible at spying. He stands, and grins in that Cheshire way he loves. I'm starting to find it charming, as well.

"Who goes there?" He asks, arms crossed over his chest as he looks me over. "Be you friend or foe?"

I stand up, holding my arms up in surrender. It's strange doing this, out in the open where anyone passing by or glimpsing out their window can see. Two stupid boys laughing and giggling while they approach each other.

James holds up my letter, and claims he can't read it.

"It's just a bunch of scribbles, Alastair. You do realise this, right?" He smiles, and I try to take it from him.

He tucks it in his back pocket.

"What were you trying to say?" He's a bit more inviting now.

We walk into the house, and I examine the tacky wallpaper and the numerous family portraits. Many are just of James's mum and dad, and I'm unsure of when they were taken. some looks recent, army-dressed father and Sunday-best mother. I can't say she looks much the same since his death, but I doubt my parents do, either. In these moments I can feel like I am missing something, and I can recall that I'm not the younger brother anymore.

James looks me over, then he leads us to his bedroom.

It faces the backyard, and I must say that it smells like smoke. I don't mind it after a while, but it's not the most pleasant to walk in to.

He offers me a seat, and I let myself slip down onto his bed, with him.

"My pyjamas are grass-stained now, because of you," I start, but he cuts me off.

"In your letter. You were trying to say something."

I think it over.

It's been hours, I'm not sure what I wrote. I should just lie, and say that I was just too tired, or that I, out of impulse, decided to give him a paper I've scribbled on. But the truth slips past my lips, and I can't say I'm proud of my honesty.

"Do you remember it?"

He raises an eyebrow. Then goes back to furrowing them. "Remember what?"

"When we kissed? Did you forget?"

Which theory will be right?

"Oh. Oh, I see. You didn't remember?"

I shook my head.  _So I didn't make it up._

"No."

"Alright, look, our parents wanted to sweep it under the rug how we kissed. They didn't want to think their kids were homos, or what the fuck they like to call it. You remember it, and I do, too. We've probably kissed more times than either of us can recall, but our parents decided that we shouldn't be around each other. They took us apart, Alastair, you can't forget that, alright?"

I feel incredibly unsure right now if I even want to be here.

"But why would they lie to us like that?"

"You know all those insults people like to use? _Sissy_ , _fag_ , _queer_ , _poof_? You'd become nothing more than those titles. We both would. The whole neighborhood would know that we've kissed, and that would ruin our parents's status. They'd only be known for the fact that their boys aren't straight in the head."

His wording puts me off. I furrow my brow, and I want to leave, now. What is so wrong with me liking James?

"That's not right," I say to myself. Unfortunately, he hears it.

"But they'll keep using those insults until the end of time. Our parents will hate us if we don't keep ourselves hidden."

He doesn't enjoy the possibility of us not being together. Now, I am glued to my spot.

"Are you a homosexual, James?"

The question confuses him.

"I've only ever been with you, I don't know if I am. But I like you, Alastair." He pauses, then watches my eyes. "Are you homosexual?"

I furrow my brow. In the moment, I cannot recall ever having more than an aesthetic appreciation of women. Why am I only now realising that I may not be heterosexual?

"I'm unsure," is all I can answer with.

James nods, then looks down to his knees, and feet. His hands are gripping at the bed now, the knuckles turning white.

"We need to keep this a secret, if we do keep going," he says, looking over to me. "Would you like to keep seeing each other?"

Right now, I am torn. I'm unsure what I should say.

On one hand, I am quite afraid of having the secret come unraveled like a sweater on a nail. I know I could all too easily give it away, I'm certain of that much.

And on the other, James is addictive. I feel almost powerfully drawn to him, always wishing to be near him, to speak with him and come closer to him as we keep meeting. It's almost infectious how he grins and laughs and gives me those looks of pure mischief. 

Now, his look has softened, and almost become more passionate. I'm unsure what he's thinking now, but when he turns to me, I want to draw him in.

My brain has no filter, and I do just that. With my arms wrapped round his shoulders, which are incredibly broad, I feel afraid.

Inside my chest, my heart is bursting. It explodes with every beat, and it becomes evident that I may now be leaning into him.

He looks more than surprised, but then, he grins. It settles my rattled nerves to see him grin like that, so pleased with what I am doing.

Only centimetres are standing between our faces. His eyes brighten, and I feel anxiety shake within me. I'm going to fall like a sawed-through tree, I'm going to collapse and I will not do what I know we both want to.

I dare, and I lean in further.


	7. Chapter 7

As James's lips meet mine, I feel at home. My mind is at ease.

I fall, it feels welcomed. He crawls on top of me, and we kiss in pure silence.

James's hand rests on my cheek, and he moves it up my face, into my hair, ruffling it while he breaks apart and locks our lips. I have no idea where to place my hands, and I feel almost too alarmed that I'll ruin the moment if I make one wrong move.

My hands rest on his shoulders, and we melt together on his bed, entangled like vines.

His back rises and falls as we kiss, I can't say that I'm not doing the same. I'm overwhelmed.

I place my hands further, down towards his hips. My hands grip him, and then travel beneath his shirt. He pulls me back, and pins my hands up above my head, before continuing. My head is swimming.

James holds me at my wrists, and then removes one hand to run down my chest, over my shirt. His hand feels as if it were a stream of blood, warm and comforting, rushing down my torso. I let out a small whimper, enough to make him smirk.

I grip my hands together, and I throw my head back while he's not kissing me. My eyes close, and I grin the smallest grin, before he tilts my chin back up, and places a firm kiss on my mouth.

If we ever get past this stage, I can't imagine I'll be able to take it.

James opens his mouth, and I do just the same. We catch each other's lips in long, drawn-out embraces, and James lets go of my wrists to settle his hands down at my hips. I feel myself shudder, and I want to see what he's doing.

When I try to look up at him, he's either going to stop me with a kiss, or to continue making my body blush bright red with teasing.

He seems to opt for the latter.

Slowly, he trails kisses down my neck. The room has turned quite hot, and I feel like we will actually melt.

I rest a hand on the back of his neck, sighing out in a low tone, squeezing my eyes shut and grabbing tightly onto him.

 _This_ was what I had been missing. Writhing underneath James, pulling back moans and whines that will be needed later. The sound of our jeans rubbing against each other, of our lips clasping and each movement they made. My heart became fast and ny breaths came out in short, heavy gasps for air when we weren't locked together.

He knows how to play with me, to make me twist and groan all because of his fingers and moans.

James stops a moment, letting me breathe while he prepares himself for what he's about to do.

My hands rest over my head, and I breathe like I've just been running. While I wait, I notice him begin removing his shirt.

I tell myself that I'm allowed to see this. We're in bed together, I get the right to see James's chest. But, my eyes avert themselves, and I only look back at him when he's leaning back into me.

James looks up at me with a surpressed smirk, and his hands rest on either side of me. When he closes me in, pins my arms back, holds me down, I feel insanely horny. His eyes travel across my face, and he sits up.

He kneels over me, and I clench my teeth as to not let a premature moan spill past my lips. But James is quick to get me making noise again.

As he leans into me, his crotch settles over mine. I try to figure out if we're going to get that far, to where I see him completely nude. I doubt it.

James unbuttons my shirt, pushing the front off of me. He admires the blush on my chest, and starts kissing down until he reaches the hem of my pants. All while I squirm and attempt not to let out gaspy sighs of pleasure. He slips a finger beneath the hem, and pulls it up.

I feel more comfortable when he does this.

James laughs, and he comes up to cup my cheek, and kiss me. I kiss him back when he pulls back, grabbing onto his cheeks and deepening it from a gentle graze of the lips to where my bottom lip is jammed between both of his.

I moan in the gentlest way, once he moves back down to the hem of my jeans.

Now, he seems to hesitate. I know that I want him to go further, to get closer and to kiss him after we've finished, kiss him roughly and deeply.

But James doesn't seem to know what to do next. I try to move his hand down to the bulge in my pants, but he pulls it away.

Instead, he draws me in by my waist, and begins to unbutton my pants. I whine when he moves his hands down into my boxers, and I don't know what to say to him.

He smiles, he grins hearing me moan and sigh at his hand. Once he begins making a jerking motion, I curl my toes and let out a small groan. It comes from the back of my throat, and he seems a little surprised when I make that noise.

We both are undressed within moments, kissing and touching as much of each other as we can. His lips feel warm on my fingertips, chilled to the bone from earlier. I force him to sit, and I move myself up to trail my lips down his shoulders. He faces away from me, and I know I flush bright red when he looks back over at me.

"You're lovely," he comments, kissing me to where it leaves a tingling on my lips.

Just there I can make out the taste of his lips. Now he tastes sweet, and I enjoy it more than before. He tastes like sugar and nectar, and I wish the kiss would never break.

James pushes me back on the bed, and the sun is lower than it was when I arrived. Maybe only minutes had passed, but if so, I'd give the rest of my life to be here, with him, breathing like I had nothing left in me.

This was when we actually began to have sex.

At first, it was uncomfortable and a bit too rough, but once we got into a rhythm, it was good.

He had to retreat to his bedside table to get a condom, and in that time, I prepared myself for what he was about to do.

My first time. Something my mum would be appalled at. I'd be thrown out and taken to some orphanage for the next two years of my life.

And all the while, I'd write to James, telling him what happened, and begging him to come and save me.

Once James is back, he tries to figure out a correct position. He ends up pressing me against a wall, my cheek resting against the wall of his bedroom. I expect everything to go smoothly, James _knows_ what he's doing.

First, he tries to make sure it'll go in. I try to watch, but seeing myself I almost panic. I'm really going to lose my virginity. It's actually going to happen.

It's all so fast, and after a few moments he's trying to prepare me. I rest my hands on the wall just beneath my stomach, and I wait for it to start.

First, it hurts horribly having him inside me. I want him to pull out, to stop and let me get it together before we continue. My hands grip at nothing, and he begins pulling out.

I whine past my teeth, praying that it'll stop hurting. He's being as gentle as possible, but it hurts.

James pulls out, and then he tries to figure out what was wrong. I lean against the wall, catching my breath and shivering as he gets ready again.

This time, he removed the condom, and put on some different one.

He tries to help me, tries to wease himself in, as to not hurt me. It makes me wince, but I still let him in.

I still have nothing to grip onto, until James moves his arms to either side of me. I grab them, and hold them tighter than I planned to.

After more than a few thrusts, I begin to feel better. Now, I can enjoy it. I feel my grip slip off him, and I can rest against the wall, groaning and smirking.

Our moans begin to make up the only noise in the room, his higher than mine. I keep my eyes shut, and the thrusts begin to turn rough. After being eased, I am feeling much more comfortable.

He leans his chest into my back, and I lean heavily into the wall. I feel weighed down, and my legs need to rely on the wall, as well.

James is thrusting more roughly, to the point where I start to feel incredible. The whole experience, at first, wore me out. Now I feel oddly safe, and warm and protected.

He removes his hands from the wall, and I hear him groan as low as I did, even laughing a bit as he thrusts in me, deeper than before.

It makes me feel weak in the knees, and I whine as he hits the spot. James takes great pride in making me moan like that, and he thrusts back into it again. My head starts spinning, and I close my eyes again. My forehead bumps into the wall gently, and he continues to fuck me. 

I don't know what I did, but James stops. He moans, and he goes a few more moments. I feel tension build in me, and James is watching my dick.

With each additional thrust, I come closer to what I assume is an orgasm. He leans into my ear, and he grunts gently as he continues. At any moment I will explode, and I'll lean on the wall, panting for air I didn't get during sex. James and I will curl up in his bed, while he smokes and we fall asleep. Like in the movies.

The moment I cum, James grins, and he turns me back to face him. I kiss him, and he does the same right back. I hold his face, and we stare at each other for a long while.

He throws off his condom, and we lie down in his bed. I find it most comfortable to lean on my side, and against him. James lights his cigarette, and I feel more comfortable lying with someone else holding me. His hand rubs my shoulder, and he blows smoke up into the air.

"Did you like it?" His voice sounds tinged with a laugh, and he turns to me.

I nod, no proper words come to mind. None of them fit how I just felt. Now, perfectly relaxed in his embrace, I simply nodded when I had so much more to say to him. The beginning hurt, I took a while to adjust to having a dick in me. Then when it just felt so soft and good, he sped up, he went deeper, and it was the best feeling I'd ever experienced. James would reassure me that he didn't intend to hurt me like he did. And I know he meant it.

"It was better than everyone said it would be," he admitted, smiling at me.

I want to take his cigarette, and to put it out in his ash tray, then lie on top of him and make love to him until his head is spinning.

I end up kneeling over him, and begin kissing him, our mouths open. Where I found the energy for a second round, I had no clue. But now, I just wanted to be in him, and I wanted him to feel that kind of pleasure that I did.

James holds onto me, and we begin to grind together. He smirks, groaning out little words of encouragement to me.

"A little faster," "Keep going," "You're doing wonderfully." He'd smile and lock our eyes.

I reach into his drawer, and pull out the same kind of condom he'd used. James grinned, and nodded that he wanted me to fuck him.

Fucking is much more hungry and animal-like, is what everyone says. Our fucking isn't quite that. It gets rough, but when it becomes rough it's nearly over.

James looks a little uncomfortable as I push into him.

"It'll stop hurting," I whisper into his ear, and kiss the lobe. He grins, and puts his lips on mine.

I kiss him deeply, and I keep thrusting into him, like I think he did. James moans, and whimpers, and tells me what a good job I'n doing.

"Fuck me harder." His fingers knot into my hair, and I wince.

James's eyes close as I fuck him deeper. He groans when my thrusts become quick and hard, he smiles and I'm glad he loves it.

I am led into what motions I do. He tells me and shows me how he wants to finish off. I follow his directions, and he seems to enjoy it quite thoroughly.

I groan, my noises are low and deeper than I thought I could ever sound. James smirks, until he makes those same noises himself. I must have hit the spot.

His head leans back, and I give a few more thrusts. I come with ease, and he nearly follows. We sound the same, and it's hilarious.

James notices that he had spilled onto his stomach, and once I pull out, he goes to clean himself up. I pull off the condom, and toss it into the waste basket near his door. He buries it with paper, then returns to bed with me.

"What time is it?" I ask. I am too tired to know where to even begin searching for a clock.

James cocks an eyebrow, standing up to put his boxers on. I admire his rear while I can still see it.

"Why do you ask? You can stay here tonight."

I shake my head.

"I didn't tell my mum and dad."

He furrows his brow, and I get up to put my clothes back on. I'm in some non-existant hurry. James stops me, and he rubs my shoulder.

" _Sh_ , Alastair." He pushes some stray locks of hair away from my face. "Look, I'll come up with a story. One we can both agree with."

For the moment, James looks a little concerned about his plan. Then, he snatches up a book, and hands it to me.

"Here. Take this. We're going to say that you came over here to get a book back from me. You got caught up in discussing the book with me, and by the time we were finished, it was late. So, I offered to walk you home. Then no one will question why you were out so late with me," he explains, and I nod, quite slowly.

The story is too much for me to remember, but I don't say anything. James is proud of his plan, and I let him be.

He cups my cheek, rubbing his thumb against my collar bone. His lips meet mine, just before he allows me to finish putting my clothes back on.

We wander out onto the sidewalk. It's much too dark to see anything, and I look up to see the only light is coming from mostly-dimmed porch lights.

James takes a hold of my hand, and I try and fail to lace my fingers with his. Instead, he glances over at me, and grins.

"I once had this friend. He used to 'experiment' with me, and we'd kiss and sometimes have sex. I really enjoyed it, despite not enjoying him. He used to say that he liked girls, and boys were more just for fun. I believe he liked both, though," he looks over to me, and I smile, despite feeling a little bad about his story.

"I really only like you." It sounds just as stupid leaving my mouth as it did in my head.

James smiles, and stops us on a street corner. He's quick to cup my cheeks, and he leans in to give me a kiss.

I veer away from him, and he's still smiling, regardless.

"I really like you too, Alastair," his tone is low, and I pull him in by his shirt.

My lips fall on the tip of his nose, and then I retract from him, staring up at him. James follows me as I continue the journey home. He grabs my wrist, and we go from pool of light to pool of light.

We reach the driveway, and he stops me, tugging on my wrist. I jolt back, and I catch some ethereal version of him gleaming beneath moonlight, face illuminated by an uncovered porch light. It's just then I realise that he's beautiful. His moans spill back into my head, clearer than when he'd made them.

God, I _do_ love him.

"Alright, so you have the story?" He motions to the book in my hand, and I nod.

"I don't see why we need a story like that," I say, but he just shakes his head. I shut up.

My plan is to creep into the house, and leave James to walk himself home. But, once I step foot into the house, Mum and Dad are waiting.

They sit in their chairs in the living room, faces set like stone. They are pissed.

"Where've you been?" Mum asks first, before she sees James come in behind me. Her expression turns to malice, and she glances between us.

"What've you both been doing?" Dad asks, turned to me with a cold expression on his face. One that says 'my son would never do this.'

My brother, he wouldn't sleep with a boy. He'd abstain until he got married, and then have adorable grandchildren for my parents to faun over and care about more than their own children. Just the thought that I have been relied on to carry on the family name makes me feel guilty. I have doomed my family.

Dad stands up, and I forgot how he towers over me.

"What have you done?" He asks between huffs of breath.

James looks up at him, and his face turns soft, despite how angry I can tell he is.

Once he explains the situation to my parents, they don't believe his story. Mum dismisses it as fiction, and Dad accuses him of hurting me.

"The _fuck_ have you done to my son?" He grabs James's shoulders, and now I know I have to say something, anything.

But, I don't.

No matter how many times I try to get a yell or a demand out, my voice shuts off. I can't say a word. I can only silently watch, opening my mouth now and again to no avail. All while Mum screams at my dad, and James tries to push him off.

I realise how futile my attempts to save James are. He takes screams to the face, and then just screams right back. He has more courage than I ever think I could have.

He dodges a blow to his jaw, and I approach my parents. At Mum's demand, Dad lets go of James, and they both look at me.

I feel pressure build up in me, and I must look like a wreck right now. My hair is ruffled, my shirt may be untucked, and I'm still flushed red.

"I. . ."

Dad cocks an eyebrow, and James watches me with a worried sort of look on his face. He knows I'm going to say it. He knows I'm going to say what happened while I was gone for apparently three hours.

"Did what?" Mum crosses her arms over her chest. I'm going to disappoint them both.

"We slept together," my voice is shaky and harsh and too quiet for a confession like this. I lean into my hands, and tears rush down my cheeks.

I haven't cried like this in months.

James locks eyes with me, his gaze means pure terror and confusion.

Mum looks floored. She sits down, and my dad just stares daggers into me and into James. None of us say anything. I'm told to go to my room, and I do.

I pull a pillow over my face to drown out the arguments, and then I finally hear it--that raspy, pained scream I tried to make earlier.

It rings through my room, and I know they heard it.

After twenty minutes, it goes quiet. I try to check what happened, but once I see my dad lying on the ground, bruise forming over his eye, I know that I don't need to be involved anymore.


	8. Chapter 8

This weekend, I am not allowed to be near my parents. They demanded I stay back, and that they don't catch sight of me. I am basically a stranger to them for the next two days.

I tried to lie in bed, and just go down at night for food. But soon, they just kicked me out.

All because I chose to fuck and be fucked by another guy. I still can't wrap my head around what's so wrong with that.

Last night the boy I had sex with gave my dad a black eye. And now I'm forcibly removed from the house, only to go right back to him.

* * *

 James answers the door, and I notice the purple blotch on his forehead before I take note of his weary expression.

I doubt he wants to see me, especially when I more so owe him a favour than he does me. He leans against the doorway, and stares at me. I step down from the doorstep and onto the pathway.

"Hi," I try to start a conversation.

James glances behind me, all around, then settles back.

"Why are you here? I thought your parents hated me and didn't want you becoming a 'fucking queer.'" He uses air quotes, and looks away from me.

I feel tension build, and I begin to leave.

"I'm sorry I bothered."

James follows slowly, and then turns me round. 

When I am facing him again, his face shows concern. He's holding my shoulder. I don't know what to feel about him right now.

James tries to sit me down on the couch inside, but I refuse. I stand, while he leans back into the sofa and I try to deduce why he's let me in the house. It could be some kind of revenge, a set up, I'm unsure.

In any case, I watch him wince in pain as he runs his fingers along his wound.

"Your dad can pack a punch. Too bad he can't take one." His lips curl slightly.

I don't know how to feel about that phrase. So, I smile in the gentlest way, and go to sit down, to inspect his wound. As I slide down beside him, he sidles up to me, and he lets me investigate.

"Why are you here? Revenge?" I laugh to myself when he says that. A throaty, silent laugh.

James smiles. I tap the wound with my ring finger, and he furrows his brow.

"Just a bruise," I infer, as I settle back to the other side of the couch.

"That's nice, but I know you weren't here to check up on me." He looks over at me, and gives a proud little grin when he leans in closer to me. I feel almost giddy that he's this close, my heart speeds up just slightly, and I want to lean in and place another kiss on his lips. To hold him close, maybe he'd straddle me down onto the sofa and hold me back by my wrists, kissing me all the way down to my crotch.

I can see us having sex there, all while I arch my back off the sofa and moan until I can't hold it in. I'd come, and James might take pleasure in licking it off of my stomach, while I hold back another orgasm, and knot my fingers right at the roots of his hair, pulling and holding it when those spikes of pleasure dull down, petting it down until I felt my stomach flinch. I can't imagine how lovely he'd feel, how hard he'd thrust into me and how eager he'd be to make me gasp and grip onto the fabric while I moan out his name.

He'd lie on top of me a while, kissing me and giving me grief about the mess we made, all while I try to commence a second round, as the daylight that attempted to poke through the closed curtains made his soft skin appear like cream. Day would turn to night, and we'd snuggle into the couch, still nude and still reeling over what we'd just done.

After my daydreaming ends, I realise that James seemed to have gotten up, and brought me water. I take it, and sip. He grins at me with a sort of pride in his gaze.

"You can wait," he takes a sip of beer, which now I crave to taste on his lips.

I scooch closer to him, and he lets me rest on him. So, I let my eyes close, and once they're open, he's laid me out on his parent's bed. He removed my shoes, and I smile thinking how much care he took of me while I was asleep.

It's not late now, only about two, so I leave the room to find him in his bedroom, leaning against his headboard, looking like he's flitting in and out of sleep.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and he looks past heavy lids, right into my eyes. He grins, softly.

"Are you here to tie me up and ravish me?" He smirks, and I wonder if he's been awake long.

"No, I thought I'd ask a favour," I confess, slouching over.

James sits up, and rubs sleep from his eyes. He scoots closer to me, and cups my cheek, dragging his thumb back and forth across my cheekbone. I grin, almost a little dreamily.

"What would that be?" He tilts his head, and I am in the proper position to kiss him.

My sexual frustration can wait.

"My parents kicked me out for the weekend," I begin to say, and James cuts me off.

"It's fine, alright? I have the house to myself still, you can stay until they let you come back home. Or I can hide you under my bed and feed you table scraps, if that's more your thing." He grins, and I smile back.

I lean into him, wrapping my arms round his middle, and hug him close. James ruffles my hair, and kisses the top of my head.

"Are you hungry?" He looks down at me. "I could order pizza, or something."

I shake my head, finding myself too comfortable in his arms that I wouldn't want him to get up. Then we couldn't get back into this exact same position, and it'd still be good, but not as great as it is now. I glance up at him, and I find myself leaning into him.

He bumps his forehead against mine, and winces a moment, laughing it off when he sees me smiling.

We kiss, and I hold him close, arms round his neck. I am happier here than I would be hiding at home, and I just then realise this could all end at any time.

James could find a girl, one he liked or just to please his mum. I picture him marrying her, seeming to tolerate her. Kissing her, holding her in his arms and feeling no shame. Because he was in love, and he would just as easily forget I'd ever existed. They'd pop out a few lovely children, ones that were polite and happy. And, I feel incredibly jealous.

I know that this love will never last. It's just a phase, it's come as quickly as it will go.

He leans into me, our noses bumping into each other as he kisses me much more lightly, kisses that leave me feeling like a ghost had snogged me.

"You're not going to leave me?"

My question makes me feel incredibly pathetic, it just makes me feel almost like I've become one of those crazed, clingy people. One that wouldn't let James go even if he didn't love me, and we meant nothing.

He looks almost confused as to why I would ask that.

"What?" He holds my cheeks, very softly, treating me like a fragile baby bird. In some way, I must be that weak.

"You're not going to leave me for someone else?" I don't even sound sure of my question anymore. It fades off, and I look down, avoiding his eye contact.

"No, no no no. . .Alastair, you think I'd just leave? Just walk away from you, and what we have?"

What _do_ we even have?

He pulls me into his arms, stroking down my hair like I was some crying, inconsolable child. His lips rested in my hair, and he kissed the top of my head, multiple times.

"Do you like me, even?"

"Like we said last night, I really do like you. Do you think I'm lying?"

"No."

He tilts my chin up, and checks for any signal of my full response on my face. I now just feel weary.

"I'll go," I say, crawling out of his grip and walking to the door.

James takes my hand, and I turn to him. He looks incredibly sympathetic, even a little sorry for my delusions.

"Are you sure you want to be alone?" His voice is serious, and I find it odd he knows when to be serious.

I shrug, but then when I think over the embraces, the cuddling, burying ourselves into the sheets and holding each other while we both fall into a deep sleep. Now, I have no excuse to leave, and now, I may feel more confidant to do it.

At nine, James and I lie in bed, my head rests on his chest, and I find solace in the steady beat of his heart. He fades in and out of alertness, and I kiss him on his neck. A smile forms on his face, and I curl closer to him, my bare leg brushing his beneath the covers. I feel his hand cup my back, and he pulls me in closer. We stay knotted together, and once my eyelids feel as if they're being weighed down with pure lead, I let myself fall unconscious.

* * *

That morning, my stomach groans as I awake.

James is still asleep, and I'm still tucked in his arms like a beloved pet, while I feel himself become stiffer.

I smile gently, tiredly, and kiss him on the cheek, cupping the other before I curl back into him, and let my eyes flutter back into their closed state. Somewhere, I hear a door open. It slams shut on its hinges.

I sit up, alarmed, and it wakes up James. He tries to pull me back in, but I pull away.

"What the fuck, Alastair?" He slurs, sitting up and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

 "James? We need to talk!" His mum's harsh voice screams from downstairs.

She knows.

I sit up, and I don't know where to go. James furrows his brow. He moves me towards his closet, and pushes me in, closing the doors in front of me.

"Stay in there, I'll handle this," he says, reaching his hand in to take mine, then grab a pair of boxers.

By the time he's pulled them on, his mum is in the room.

Alexandra corners her son, not even out of her light jacket and hat.

"I heard from Norma that you and Alastair had been sleeping together."

James laughs gently.

"You mean literally sleeping together or that we're having sex? Because, in that case, we've done both."

I poke through a blind, and I see her hold her hand up, threatening to hit him.

Had she always been like this? Making him cower in fear, making him beg for her not to hit him. If so, he was so used to it that he now could stare her in the face, a smirk on his.

"It's good that you became friends with him again, but once it gets to the point where you two are having sex, it's not good to be friends with him anymore. You should be getting involved with girls!" She crosses her arms, and she looks like she's about to cry.

I sit back, deeper in the closet, and bury my face into my hands.

I've done this. I've caused this strain in his and his mother's relationship. All because of sex.

Once this argument diminishes, I'll leave. I'll leave, I'll never come back, I won't see James again and it'll be for the better of both of us. He'll have that pretty wife and those amazing kids, and I'll have meaningless affairs for the rest of my life, wishing I hadn't done what I'm going to now.

But, if James is happy, then we'll both be better off. I'll just make sure he sends me the Christmas cards, and then we'll go our separate ways until we bump into each other one day in town, and we'll catch up. Then disperse to our own lives again, never to see each other again.

It's amazing how quietly I can cry, with my back jerking and my sniffles as minimal as I can make them.

James shakes his head, and stands broader to her.

"I'll be involved with whoever the hell I want, Mum. Alastair and I like each other, and for now, that's how it's going to be." He furrows his brow, and shows no sign of backing down.

"Your father would be ashamed to know that this is what his son became."

Alexandra leaves.

James stands unaffected, and I slip out once she's at the stairs, going to stand beside him.

"James?" I wipe my silly tears from my eyes, but he says nothing.

He sits down, legs sprawled as far as they can go, and he hangs his head.

"I shouldn't have done that. We shouldn't have talked again, Alastair. We shouldn't have done any of this." He looks over at me, and for the second time in my life, I see James perfectly distressed.

Eyes red, puffy, watering, his voice trembling, his face flushing red.

I lean into him, and hold him. He doesn't move a muscle.

"I'm sorry, Alastair."

That night, I begin to leave. He takes my cheeks, and kisses me deeply as he can, holding me close, almost sucking the breath out of me.

I hold his wrists, and once he breaks the kiss, we're both already contemplating our plans for when we stop seeing each other.

"Mum is making me draft into the war. The news says it'll only be a few more months that we'll be stationed out there, and then we'll come back. I'll be a hero, Alastair. I'll make my dad proud."

"I'll be back in school by then. I'll study whatever I have to to get by. Once I leave, I'll rent a flat and we'll never see each other again."

James kisses me again, and I lean in, never wanting it to end.

"We'll see each other again. We'll move into that flat together once you leave school, we'll have no one to stop us from being together then. Just imagine, we'll be that antisocial couple that people speculate about every morning when they see us leaving for work."

I smile, and I'm glad he's said that.

"I'm going to miss this," he admits, his nose brushing mine. "I'll miss you, I'll miss being carefree, I'll miss my hair."

A chuckle arises in my throat, and he grins at me.

"I'll write you. I swear it."

We swear to write letters, to keep each other updated. I've been promised the war will end soon, and he'll be back and we'll be proper lovers then.

I kiss him goodbye. It chills me to my bones, and the last image in my head that night is James crying while his hair fell into his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

It feels cold to wake up knowing that James is leaving for good, likely.

I know I'm not allowed to see him sent off at the train station, and can just try to remember every detail of his face while I bury myself beneath my blankets. Further and further, until I forget that he's gone, and I feel the tears come back.

No one I know has returned alive. And now James is gone, and he'll come back in a neatly dressed coffin, likely dead from gangrene and barely fixed up before they chuck him in that hole.

I cover my face with a pillow, and I feel my brain pound as I conjure up that image.

James, dead. Because of me.

I stop feeling that surge of joy whenever I think about him, or say his name, or remember his face, his touch, his lips and every inch of him that I'd come to memorise.

Now it's just a cold, burrowing feeling of regret for what I've done.

I don't see why I should complain. At this point, no one can stop him from going. He's capable, he's not willing, but that's not the point. They take anyone, and he's as anyone as they'll ever get. Soon, he'll be barraged with bullets, stricken down the the earth, and trampled as his target corners another man and makes him a mass of ugly, bloody, twisted flesh and hot metal.

This guilt doesn't leave me. The tears refuse to stop, and I hunch over my desk later that day to write out another silly letter.

* * *

_Dear James,_

_It's come to my attention that I may never see you again. And I do not mean this to discourage you from returning from the war alive, but I have this aching fear that you will be killed and we won't see each other again._

_Right now, in this very letter, I just want to tell you that I love you. I really, truly love you._

_You've made these past few days bearable, and I'm scared to say that we may never meet again._

_You're my best friend, James, I never want to have that moment when I'm older and I realise that you have been gone for many years. I want to pray that you will live, and I want to see a day where we reunite at the train station, and we hold each other and we sob into each other and we're the happiest we've been since that morning we woke up together in your bed. We'll have that flat! We'll live together, I'll learn to cook to help us survive._

_I don't know what I want to do when I grow up. What to you want to do?_

_Growing up is a weird thought. I don't know where I see myself in even just a year, but I hope that it will be with you. Ten is risking it._

_I hope you make it there safely, love._

_You're a beautiful soul and I can't let them just stomp you out._

_Love,_ _Alastair  
_

_P.S., please write me back, dear._

* * *

My pleas are desperate, and honestly are incredibly futile.

I doubt James will receive my letter, he'll likely never see it, and write me his own letter, asking where I'd been. Slipping down the drain, I walk over to James's, there's no other way to get his new address.

His mum answers the door, and shrieks me off the property. I twist the letter in my grip, before I attempt to escape, fearing for my life.

In only a moment or two, James comes out onto the porch, seeing me nearly towards the sidewalk.

We meet in the middle, while his mum watches from past the curtains of the living room. He initially says and emotes nothing.

I hand him my letter, and just stare. Now I must memorise his lovely face.

He's giving me a solemn expression, one which would look so much better on me. I want to hold him, but we'll be broken apart instantly.

Behind me, my parents rush up. And Alexandra removes herself from the house.

They watch us, ready to drag us back to our houses and to keep us apart. James doesn't react too much, but we continue to stare. There's nothing much we can do.

But, James takes my hands, and holds me close, tightly embracing me. He cups my upper back. I bury my face in his shoulder, taking in his scent and trying to rub it off on myself as much as possible.

He rests his cheek on mine. I want to kiss him, like one of those dramatic movies Mum was fond of. But, holding him for an unknown amount of time is much better than immediately being ripped away from him.

My eyes squeeze shut. I want to hold him tighter than I ever have in my life. I want to stick to him and I want to make sure he never leaves, that he is safe with me for the rest of his days.

But, with me, he never will be safe.

I let go, and step away. Before I can begin to leave, he does it. He kisses me, soft as he can, and then we are torn apart. My dad grabs me, and yet I don't smile at James. His face looks empty, just as I think mine to be.

* * *

That kiss lingers on my lips, it lingers for hours, even when I've turned cold. I don't know if I should see the day where I wake up and stop blaming myself.

Friday, I awake with guilt weighing me down like rocks strapped to my back. My feet drag across the ground when I walk.

Nearly a week since James had gone. A week, where I simply drug myself around the house, unable to release my mind from worry. It stirs in my head, it leaves me feeling dizzy and weak. I sit down at the kitchen table, hunched over and unresponsive like only two weeks prior.

My stomach growls out it's frustration, but I can't bring myself to put food to my mouth. Shall I just let myself starve, and hope that I shouldn't have to wait too long before James comes to meet me in the afterlife?

I remove myself from the kitchen, drink handfuls of water from the bathroom's sink, while my gut groans for anything more.

I deny it anything.

I shouldn't let myself become reliant on food like my mother, and become fat and wobbly like jello.

The sort of quiet noises I hear at night seem like they should be coming from outside. But they roar in my head, telling me that I am responsible, that I shouldn't have given James that letter and that it will distract him. Why have I done this?

I stop crying, for now. There is no point in wasting my tears when he is still fine.

* * *

The world turns, day and night still commence, no one is out of the ordinary. Life is still going on without him here.

I keel over in bed the moment I sit up, and I realise I haven't left the house in now three weeks. Now, I seem to have forgotten that I am a person, that I can't go weeks not showering, eating, brushing my teeth, getting up from bed and exercising.

Maybe I should leave the house soon, or maybe I should just stop worrying, stop whinging and crying about my boyfriend who left. There's no point anymore. I can't stop him anymore. Not when he's gone, and when he was so determined to go after his mum told him he had to.

Why did he listen to her? It was more for his dad than for her, I remind myself, after raking fingers through limp hair that I scarcely identify as my own.

I stand in the shower for thirty minutes or so. Any other day of the week, any day other than these past few weeks, I'd hum, and, if daring enough, I'd sing quietly. The acoustics are incredible in the shower, and while I never sing anything that would get me noticed by an agent, I do like to sing there.

Today, I let water fall over me, blind me, suck away all the clean-tasting air and making my lungs feel as if they were slowly suffocating. I just stand there, breathing in steam and noticing my skin slowly turn red.

I can't feel any part of my body anymore. I turn round, and lean against the wall of the shower, my head falling back, fresh air filling my lungs. My heartbeat slows down, and I let myself sink down onto the floor. The moment I open my eyes again, I look away from my own form. It's disgusting and unreal to me. This bony, thinly-fleshed thing that my ugly soul inhabits, once touched with the same care as a newly-hatched bird, caressed like it mattered. I cringe remembering how I reveled in that attention. Gentle strokes and soft touches and fingertips grazing over my lips. I deserved none of that.

The shower ends there, and I don't stop to clean the mirror of fog. I just turn the light off, and retreat into my bedroom. Again.

* * *

My life has become nothing more than small segments of excitement followed by long drags of isolation, crippling numbness, and the feeling that no day truly ends, they just run together like watercolour.

I can no longer feel like I actually am a real person, experiencing a life. More or less, I am watching a first-person film, one that I never could control and have somehow less control over now. All because of a boy.

But that wasn't just it. I love him. I love him, and I can't just regard him as a boy.

He's older now, and we both are, through sheer experience alone. Only a few days.

None of this is connecting anymore. I dare not think his name, or remember his face, anything about him. Why should I waste more tears on him if he hasn't sent me a letter back? It's been a month now, where is he? Why isn't this stupid war over?

I look up from my pitiful nest of blankets, and I wonder.

No war ever ends. We just choose a new enemy and we immediately reassemble the troops for whatever incredibly awful reasoning we've invented. We bring kids who don't care into this war, kids who aren't bred for war like they were before. It doesn't matter if they know why we are fighting, they are just taught that we must destroy this randomly-decided enemy. They have no training, and hundreds are killed while more trained soldiers are told to trample their still-breathing bodies to end another gruesome battle.

He must have never responded to my letter. He is buried beneath several corpses, of other young men and older alike, the letter tucked in his pocket while he breathed out a few more raspy tones and begged to be carried back to the medic station. So he didn't have to keep fighting. So he could rest, maybe get sent home.

If he was sent home, honourable discharge, I'd be the first to line up at the train station and greet him back.

But, I knew there was no chance I'd see him again.

At this rate, only my mother and father remain in my sphere of acquaintances. The last few people in my world.

I remind myself that I almost thought his name.

_James._

My face automatically buries itself beneath sheets and covers, and I can't breathe and my face is bright red again. Good thing I've stopped making noise when I sob like this. My back jerks and twitches, and I scrunch my whole face up.

Footsteps approach my door, and something is slid underneath it. The person leaves.

Once I've gathered the courage to get up and go to my door, I see one letter.

My name, my address, blots of ink and other mess upon it.

I open it up, not thinking of who it could be.

* * *

_Dear Alastair,_

_We are barely scratching the end of the war. It's nowhere, we may never get out of it._

_I made friends, it was foolish. Only one of the close ones continues to survive, and he's hooked to an iron lung now, awaiting a transplant. I am his only visitor. I talk and talk, I tell him about our mates like they're still alive, and he just stares past me. He's seen so much in only a few months in service._

_I shall have to go quickly, I just wanted to let you know that I am alive. Today is 12 August, and I'm still kicking. I've barely been sent to fight, and it should seem that is how I will be utilised for the remaining months of war. I may never see a bullet to my chest, or my leg, or whatnot. I hope to never see gangrene develop on my body and to suffer horrifically during an ugly procedure or just die._

_Alastair, this war is never going to end._

* * *

Another letter spills out from beneath the first, and it seems that more than three letters had found their way to me.

I read them all with haste, curled up on my bed, holding the next few at my side and making sure to not crumple a single one.

* * *

_Dear Alastair,_

_You should have seen it._

_An enemy, he barged into camp last night. No one noticed, and my friend, the iron lung, he was shot point-blank in the head before anyone noticed he'd snuck in. I didn't scream._

_He was a fairly attractive man, deep eyes and black hair. He'd wanted to be an actor before he was drafted. I think he'd have been a stellar one._

_I miss you, love. I forgot your face, I can't remember what you sound like, I just hear ringing and I see flashes every time that I blink. One day, I may be able to see you again. I hope I am myself by that time._

* * *

_Dear Alastair,_

_I love you. Do you know that? I love you, Alastair, I miss your face and I miss your voice and I miss the way we fit together in bed. I hope you haven't changed too much, I hope you don't leave me just because I have changed. You're understanding, you're sweet and perfect and lovely, you couldn't do such a thing._

_I pray that if I do die, you will outlive me. I don't want you to give up on your life just because I am no longer in it. You're going to go on to be amazing at whatever you're gonna do, I know it, I can't see you letting up and killing yourself like so many women left behind by their men. Once I am gone, should I die, please move on immediately._

_It'll hurt, and I'm so sorry that it will, but you're stronger than your emotions. You are a brave person, Alastair, I'm so proud to be your lover. One day, we shall be together again, I know it._

_I hope we meet again, Alastair._

_Love, James S._

* * *

_Dear Alastair,_

_Sleeping is no longer possible for me. I can only imagine the bodies, all my friends dying. I've seen_ you _dying. The doctor has told me I'm depressed, and I told him I'd had a gun to my head the previous night, put it down, and started writing to you. I wrote so many openings to this one, and none of them were right. I'm sorry about that._

_It's almost stupid how I tell my mates I'm writing to some version of you that doesn't exist. If I could, I'd tell them all that you're handsome, you're empathetic and kind and gentle, that I want to move us both into a flat, to wake up every morning to your face and kiss you before I fall asleep. Now, you are the only thing that keeps me from just letting some insane man shoot me full of bullets until I collapse._

_I'll be myself again, hopefully. Once I am, I'll be ready to come back to you, and we'll live the life we were supposed to. We're going to meet again, we will. I don't know if it shall be soon, in a few days or weeks or months, but soon I will see your face again, and I'll recognise you, and I'll wonder how I ever forgot how you look._

_Until then, I miss you. I can't end one letter without telling you how I miss you, I guess. I feel like a mess._

_I love you. Never forget that._

_Love, James S._

_P.s., how are your studies? What are you studying? You should become a writer, and tell stories of the two of us. I'll be the president of your fanclub, I promise._

* * *

There are no more letters.


	10. Chapter 10

I don't hear the news until many weeks later.

It's October now, and I haven't heard from James in seven weeks. It pains me to know what might be happening to him now.

The war is over now, the remainder of the troops being sent back to their families and wives and girlfriends. All but us unlucky few who get to attend mass-funerals for fallen soldiers.

It hadn't occurred to me then, but he could have been tortured, kept as a hostage or just bled until he passed out, and he never awoke. I'd rip him from the decaying rubble, take him back to where he belongs, where he couldn't be hurt worse than in a war.

In some ways, it hurts imagining James. His cocky smirks and all those amazing expressions I once admired, all taken away, turning his face ashen and still, dead.

I can't help thinking about it.

My mind has turned to jelly, I can't think of anything other than the man I sent to war.

I pace the same line in my bedroom, hoping desperately that any moment now a series of letters will be passed beneath my door, and I will read them. The only comfort I'll get out of them is knowing that he is alive.

The letters he sent weeks ago, I've read them over every night. I used the envelope as a bookmark, and as I read I thought my pain greater than any tragic protagonist. These printed characters made only of ink and paper couldn't grasp how I felt, only the bare basics of sadness, fear, hunger, et cetera. In any other situation I could turn to a fictional character, but now, it seems I'm left to feel this exclusive sort of pain that I cannot delve into.

It took me hours to realise my parents could understand, but they wouldn't let me talk to them about it. They still mourned.

My mind turns numb and blank, then a knock rings in my ears. It startles me.

I stand up, and my mother stands in the doorway. It's been three days since I've seen her.

She looks much better than she did, and she gives me a look that can only entail something horrific has happened.

"Alexandra's downstairs. She wants to speak with you."

I gather myself, and I shut the door on her to change before I allow myself to go downstairs.

Surely enough, Alexandra's sitting at the kitchen table, hands closed around a mug and shaking. She's in tears, and makes the softest sniffling noises as I approach. I stop in the doorway.

My heart drops, and I know that I don't need to hear anything. I know that something bad happened to James, that everything will be blamed on me and I will leave the room sobbing into a sweater that hasn't been washed in weeks.

"Oh, my God," she murmurs, and pats her eyes dry with a napkin before she looks up at me. Pure rage fills them when she sees me, followed by tears that only make her look harsher.

I brace myself, allowing to let my walls be broken down for right now. It'd likely make her happy to tear me apart, so I see no point in not letting her.

" _You_ did this. _You_ got my son killed!" She points her thin, jittery finger at me.

My mum stands in the dining room, and only gives me a side-eyed glance.

I haven't spoken since the day he left. There's no way that I can do anything more than let out a tiny chirp, my voice is entirely gone.

"James was so young, and you had to corrupt him! It was those disgusting books your mother told me about, those ones written by homosexuals. You were already Godless enough to read those books, but then you had to do that to my James! He was all I had left, but you had to be selfish and turn him into a queer like you!"

I form my lips into a thin line, and I ignore my little jerky breaths as I stare her in the face.

I didn't want this. I didn't want James to get sent off to war and killed. All I wanted was to be with him, because over those few days we'd been together again I realised how amazing a friend he was.

"You don't know how much it hurts to lose your son! You'll never have one, taking it up the arse! You're never going to understand what it's like to lose your only will to live!"

Mum glares at me, and I don't know what to say. I can't even think of some witty remark in my head.

I clasp my hand over my eyes, and cry, letting out a harsh, disgusting noise as I do so. My head lowers, and yet Alexandra continues.

"I doubt he ever loved you, he wouldn't give into your brainwashing. You ruined everything he was, and I hope you feel ashamed."

As those last words leave her mouth, I stare at her, hatred beaming out my eyes and pinning her in her seat.

"Leave."

"I'll only leave when you apologise for sending James off to his death."

Now I am compelled to shriek. Now I know that I have enough voice in me to curse her out, to fault her and rip her down just like she did me.

"No. I didn't send James off into the war. I didn't sign him up. I didn't decide that the possibility of death was a good punishment for merely loving someone. James didn't decide to love me, and I didn't decide to love him. We decided to spend time together, we decided to kiss, we decided to have sex, and we decided it was what we wanted to do. It's not your decision to fall in love. I don't know why you think I made him do this, James decided to do every single thing he did, and I let him. He didn't go to war to make it up to you. He shouldn't have to make it up to you for loving someone that you didn't approve of."

I close my mouth, and Alexandra stands up. Immediately my heart races, and I begin to back away. She comes up to me, looking me right in my face.

"He died. It's only your fault."

She has the letter in her hand, the only proof that James Spencer ever existed, and I did not get to see it. As Alexandra leaves, I retreat to my bedroom.

I need to find my book. The one he got me, the one he read from with that stupid smile on his face. I search beneath piles of clothes, paper, and other discarded books, only to find it with the receipt still tucked into a few pages from the end. Out of everything I'd recently read, 'A Single Man' was one of the more tolerable novels I had. It seemed to be the only one that had begun to understand me. I flip to the back, and pick out one passage.

_George clings only to Now. It is Now that he must find another Jim. Now that he must love. Now that he must live. . . ._

I remove myself from George's troubles. It is too soon to move past mourning.

My parents know that feeling of mourning, I remember, and I begin to realise that my emotions aren't exclusive and oh-so hard to understand. I am just being dramatic for tragedy's sake.

My brother. His name was Lewis, and he was three years older than me. He played rugby, he loved Great Britain, and he'd been the thing of multiple girls' affections. Once he was old enough, he signed up to go to war. Before then, he was my loving older brother. He offered to teach me how to play rugby, and I was to teach him how to write. We never got the chance.

Three months into service, two years into the war, he took a bullet for one of his mates. It got infected, but he recovered. In the end, he drowned after being shot in the leg and falling into the ocean, during a fight on the beach. I could only imagine the horrific pain of suffocating, as your lungs swim in salty, disgusting water.

I remove that thought from my mind, along with my brother, in general.

* * *

Later that night, Mum comes into my room, remorse heavy on her face.

"I'm sorry James died. I know you cared about him."

Why is she doing this? An hour or two earlier she'd be siding with Alexandra and putting his death solely on me, to make me feel like shit.

She sits down on the foot of my bed, and I give her as harsh a stare as I can manage.

"Do you want to go to the funeral?"

I look down into my lap, and I don't know what to say to her. It didn't occur to me James would have a funeral, be it at that stupid chapel that I know will cause me pain stepping foot into again, or jut a private gathering at the Spencer's.

In the end, I shrug. It's enough of an answer to satisfy Mum.

"You know, he'd want you to be there. He wrote a letter to his mum a week or two back, she gave it to me. Do you want to read it?"

I say nothing. This is all a rouse. She's only doing this to make me feel ashamed that I did this.

Now, I can only believe I caused James's death.

She leaves the letter, and begins to leave.

"Gangrene. He wasn't treated quickly enough, I'm sorry."

I don't know what to feel anymore, and I pull the letter into my lap once she shuts the door, and read feverishly.

All the scrawled letters, the crossed out words, it all makes me wonder how long ago it was written. And why I hadn't received another letter from him, for over a month.

* * *

_Dear Mum,_

_The war is supposed to end any day now. I can't wait._

_My friends and I are doing well, and we are going to go to the tavern later tonight. You'd like them, they're probably the closest I'll have to best friends out here._

_Can you send this letter Alastair's way? I haven't been able to write him as much as I want to. I sent him a few letters, he responded to them, and I haven't been able to send any more. If he does read this, I want him to know I miss him and he's going to meet me at the station when we come back. On our end, there's not much fighting left, I think we'll make it._

_And. . .if we don't, he's coming to my funeral. I don't care about your opposition to him, please just let him come. He deserves to mourn just as much as you._

_Anyway, I have to go. There's firing off in the distance, I'm needed._

_Goodbye._

_\- James_

* * *

My eyes immediately fill with tears.

It's almost certain that's the moment that James got shot, got gangrene. He died only recently, then.

It's tiring to cry like this, so I let myself huddle into bed, and I tuck the letter into my bedside table. I don't know why I am keeping the letter, it belongs to his mother, but it was left here with me, so my selfish instincts tell me it is now mine.

I can't believe this. It's impossible to think that he'd gone. I wish I hadn't wrapped myself up in this delusion that he'd be okay, that we'd be okay. There was no chance he'd ever make it out, no training and he was never made to be a soldier.

In the end, I should have seen this coming. There was no way that I _couldn't_ have seen this coming. But soon, I started to believe him with his kind words and his encouragement. I turn my gaze from the floor up to the pile of letters he'd sent me. Seeing them made me sick.

Frustrated, I stand up and hold them all in my hands. Every single one, all well-read and well-loved by me, treated like gentle doves that had made my heart flutter when I did read them. Now, I am empty, seeing them.

Inside, for a moment, I feel a burning desire to set fire to all of them. To see them turn to ash, embers floating off, a sort of bookend for me to draw closure from.

In some ways, I find it almost comforting to imagine it as my own funeral for James. To pretend that our relationship could just be set aflame and forgotten like a useless memory. Destroyed, never to be longed for again. This thought hurts, in a sort of twisting, painful way in my stomach. I slam them down on my desk, and I fall back onto the ground. Every moment I think about his face, his voice, it all makes me feel anxious.

I want to imagine him standing in front of me, kneeling down to me and holding my shoulder, then drawing me into a warm embrace that he doesn't let me out of until I've stopped feeling like shit. James would do that, and now I have to keep telling myself he can't.

The reality of the situation will hit. My eyes will cry for ages, I'll feel heavier than lead, and I'll lose myself in fantastical memories that end with us living the happy-ever-after we should have had. As if by magic, rain becomes harsh outside. I almost believe I control the weather, but no thunder crashes outside when a flare of rage towards Alexandra boils in me.

I wish right now to slide down the storm drain, to escape from my hovel and leave. I don't know where I will go, but in my closet, I find my old book bag, and throw every single letter in, along with the book and begin to go.

In hindsight, it was incredibly stupid to sneak out, but no one noticed, and by the time I'm outside, the rain has begun to pour harder. No way they could have heard me.

Beneath a hoodie and jeans about five weeks unwashed, I leave the suburbs. I feel almost as if I am invisible, and I know no one will notice me when I reach some destination. For now, I play over every moment I remember knowing James. It ends with our kiss two months ago, and it ends much too quickly. What would I have done differently if we hadn't had that falling out? Would James have been drafted at all? Would we be together if our families hadn't found us on the shore? Would we have been close and had a proper relationship?

Too many questions. I feel my thoughts race from James to my brother to those flags thrown over caskets, and I know that James will arrive back home in one.

Nothing is stopping me from crying now.

I'm at a bench near a cluster of trees, and I sit. I fall over myself, holding my knees and making myself as small as I was meaningless. It's hard to admit that I am perfectly meaningless. But I am.

My bag is beginning to soak through, and I pull it onto my lap, instead letting myself grow wet and cold.

Now, I remember those medical books, those ones that discuss drugs and how they harm you. Pot was mentioned, and I smile remembering the scent that tainted James. It wasn't pleasant, but now I try to place the smell and it causes a small smile to poke at the corners of my mouth.

However, it fades quick.

Soon, I'm thinking of how I'll function knowing my best friend is gone, I have no one to grieve to, and no one will indulge in the pain.

Now, I really am all alone. And this feeling hurts to fully realise.

What am I going to do now?

 


	11. Chapter 11

James took my hand.

I flushed a bit, I felt nervous holding hands in general, so I wished he'd just take his hand back and let me just follow him.

His excitement was a bit contagious, and by the end of our dash down the block, I wondered what was so incredibly interesting, that he just had to show me.

As we approached, I caught up to his side. His fingers laced between mine a moment before he let go, and he stopped me at a window.

"What are we doing here?" I glance in, then back to James, as he pokes just over the edge of the window.

We watched a moment or two, and a figure on the couch moved, drawing my attention to it. Two men curled up on the couch, one holding the other around his waist. The one holding the other was awake, watching some muted show while the other man was quite asleep.

James looked over at me, a bit excited still.

"Don't you see them? I've never seen this kind of thing before."

I nodded, agreeing, and looked back in. The man kissed the sleeping one on the cheek, and nuzzled him against his neck.

We walked back to James's, and after hours of talking, we curled up in his room. His parents had gone to bed, and I had been told to stay over by my mum. She wanted me to have one friend, at all.

James and I held each other, he smiled at me, laughing while we talked about whatever was on our minds. With only an inch or two between us, on a cramped, small bed, I actually did feel at peace being this close to him.

I fluttered in and out of sleep, and James held my cheek, waking me up enough. I smiled at him, and snuggled into him, while he rubbed my back. I don't know why he was doing it, but that night I know I went to sleep happy.

* * *

Once James pulled me into him after I'd been gone for school, and he held me tight, after seeing that I was upset.

I told him kids were being mean, and it hadn't gotten to me until then. James cupped my cheeks, and demanded the names of the kids who made fun of me. I looked down, and pulled myself away from him. I left then, I didn't like James touching my face then.

That night, he showed up at my doorstep, and he asked if I was alright. He'd apologised about twenty times before I told him it was alright, and that I'd like him to come inside.

We sat on the couch, while James snuggled up to me. I rested my head on top of his, and watched the screen with a somewhat blank expression. This kind of touching wasn't half bad, and I allowed him to continue until I was lying on him, and nearly asleep.

James took great joy in this, and we started kissing each other not long after. Not on the lips, but his nose, ears, neck, cheeks, forehead, all while he grinned and tried to secure one kiss on my lips.

"Just let me kiss you, I'll stop bugging you, then," he laughed in a hushed tone.

I smiled, and leaned in, placing one kiss beside his lips. He moved in, and kissed me on his own. We kept doing that, for probably ten minutes, until my mum came downstairs, and we faked being asleep until she left. Once she had gone, we continued with this, and each kiss became longer, deeper and a bit rougher. When James grabbed my face then, I didn't mind it. I was actually pretty alright with it. It only took a moment or two for us to be holding each other, lips clasping and unclasping while we tangled ourselves together.

"This doesn't change that we're friends, right?" He asked, while I was still placing my lips on his neck and jaw.

"No."

"Good. It'd be weird then. . ."

I didn't respond. I just kept kissing his throat, up to his chin and then back to his mouth. James rested his hands somewhat low on me, right around the waist area. I smiled inwardly, and James turned us over, so he was on top of me.

We fell asleep, and I did somewhat hope that in the morning, he wouldn't have forgotten anything happened and we just ignored the fact that we kissed.

I wanted to kiss him again.

* * *

We went to the coast. My family had taken us, but they went off in favour of getting a nice spot further off from the tide, and my brother insisted on going with them.

James walked with me along the shore, out footprints becoming indented in the wet sand. He'd worn swim trunks and a sweater, while I just rolled up the legs of my trousers and insisted I'd watch.

It was a darker day, and it was fairly cold, so we wandered off, carrying our own beach towels and blankets to go sit out a few metres away. We'd gone off so we could spend the day on our own. Once we were about a metre away, I took James's hand. He looked down at me, and smiled then, it made me feel a bit giddy.

It'd been a while since we'd first kissed, and I found that I was thinking about him in a more sensuous sort of way. I did want to do those sort of things with him, but I wasn't sure how ready I was to accept what I was feeling. In our town, we couldn't be like that. Everyone was religious, even us, to an extent, and they wouldn't let two boys kissing each other slide. I was conflicted a long while about what to do since the last time I'd seen him.

In private. We'd have to be completely private. I made sure that I wouldn't screw up and give it all away.

We sat down on our towels, in almost a cave, warm beneath our sweaters and blankets. After a while of snuggling together to keep warm, I brought up what we were going to do.

"Do about what?" He'd asked, still very casual and still resting his head on my shoulder.

"About us kissing. Do you want to keep doing it?" My voice was a little hoarse, and James smiled.

He leaned in, placing a soft kiss on my lips. One that promised more would come later.

"How about we give that crab a show?" He gestured to one lone crab scurrying across the sand, and I became distracted by it.

James drew me in, and we grabbed at each other, it was eager and I became overwhelmed very quickly. After a moment, I sat back, taking in large breaths of salty sea air before leaning back into him, grinning and almost pulling him back onto me. He laughed, and after a few more quick little kisses, he wiped the sand off his palms and smirked at me.

"Y'know that sand in your hair really compliments your complexion."

I grinned the weakest way I could, and fluffed it out of my hair. He pushed locks from my face and kissed my forehead. I whimpered, almost, as he leaned us more against the wall of the cave, kisses becoming rough and open and actually a bit loud. I breathed harder, it was still hard adjusting to something like this.

We spent a good portion of our time curled up into the wall, kissing. It took us a while to get bored of it, and after that, we walked down the beach.

James tied a blanket round his neck like a cape, and kept telling me he was a sexy wizard.

"Sandy capes aren't sexy," I attempted to tell him, but he didn't listen.

"Well, I'll cast a charm on you that will make you ignore the sand on my cape. Otherwise it's all good, right?"

"You've really got to ask that?" I grinned, and he grabbed my arm, pulling me close.

We couldn't find my parents for a long time, and we were quite ready to give up the search. However, James started running.

He kicked up watery sand, and I had to follow him, holding blankets and towels round my shoulders as I chased him.

It grew tiring after a few minutes, and we both stopped. James watched me gasp for breath, and laughed, before turning and running again. He dodged the tide, and I, by instinct, had to keep track of him.

I was the first to get wet, and my left foot was submerged in water. I winced, and let out a little yelp, and James stopped. He took my hand, and we continued to run. We had to have long since passed my parents, they couldn't have been so far away from that cave.

After we had both been thoroughly doused by water, we did finally stop, far away enough from the tide. Our feet were placed into rough, wet sand, and I looked up at him. I admired his height, his face, and his hair. The sun had started to come out only a few moments earlier, and I put down the blankets and the towels.

We moved closer together, the sound of the waves crashing against one another washing out any other noise we'd been making.

I leaned in, and a grin formed across his face. He held my shoulders and tackled me to the ground, all while laughing, getting me to do just the same. I stared up at him, my legs twisting up into his own, to keep him down with me. My arms wrapped round his back, and we stared at each other for the longest moment of my life.

It was a sort of anxiety-inducing moment, as we both stared like we had no idea what we were doing lying on the sand with each other, the scent of the sea burning our nostrils while we lied like this. My nose rested against his, and I almost tilt my head back. Our eyes are locked with each other, and the expression in his was unreadable. I didn't know if he was scared, he wanted to get up, or if he was going to do what he did.

James caught my lips, and I was glad of it. I grabbed him close, and we kissed, holding each other closer than necessary.

He held my down by the hallows of my shoulders, and it hurt. He did let off after I gave a small whimper, and I deepened the kiss after a moment or two.

The crunching of sand didn't startle either of us as we both continued to grab at each other. That was, before a hand grabbed James, and we were torn apart.

My memory became a sea of hazy, muffled voices, as I sat up and my mum and dad yelled at James. I couldn't focus on one person in the argument, and I found myself locking eyes with my brother. Lewis, looking fairly disgusted, looked away, refusing to acknowledge me.

It was after a bit more yelling that we were dragged to the car, all of us still sandy and wet and uncomfortable.

The car ride was about twenty or thirty minutes of pure silence, that dragged on into a horrific eternity as Lewis, James, and I sat, crushed together in the backseat. My brother monitored the both of us, as at one point I tried to slip my hand into his, and Lewis dragged it right back into my lap. I glared at him, and Mum was drawn into our ordeal. She sided with Lewis, obviously.

So, for thirty minutes, we all sat perfectly quiet, occasionally jerking and adjusting ourselves to more comfortably fit. Being jammed against James didn't help at all, and we both tried to keep apart, but it wasn't convincing-looking.

We got out of the car, all of us still silent. Mum called James's parents to come by and pick him up, with the intention of telling them what had happened and likely blaming them for bad parenting. I was sent upstairs, as to be kept away from James, and the rest of them sat in the kitchen, waiting to discuss with Alexandra and Elliot how wrong it was that we'd been kissing. So, I listened through the door, intrigued to know what was going on.

Once they arrived, it was time for arguing.

Alexandra and Mum were both disgusted, and Dad tried to express that same disgust with Elliot.

However, Elliot's response was incredibly unexpected.

"What's wrong with it? If they both like each other, what's the problem here?" He told my dad, and he didn't like that answer.

"But I don't know where they got it. They weren't queer before."

"What if they were? And just didn't express it? It's just fine."

Dad must have gained that same horrified expression as Lewis.

"You're fine with your kid being queer?"

"Why shouldn't I? He's my kid and I love him. I'd be a dick to hate him just because he was making out with another boy."

I didn't realise Elliot was so accepting, and neither did anyone else there.

"You're not kidding, Dad?"

"James, if no one is being hurt I don't get what the problem is here. I just want to make sure you're happy. Do you like Alastair?"

James must have nodded.

"Does Alastair like you?"

"I don't know. I think he does."

"Perfect, all is well here."

Only a few moments later, the three left. I sat down in bed, and I played over that moment in my head. For a while, I was in peace. Lying in my bed, regretting letting James kiss me then. It made me upset thinking about it, so I stopped. It was easy then to not feel so sad.

The doorknob jiggled, and my door screamed as Lewis entered the room. In the dark, I could barely make out his face. But, I could tell he wasn't pleased to see me.

"I don't know what to say to you."

"That you don't want your little brother to kiss boys?"

"No. No. That wore off. I just. . .I didn't expect _you_ , of all people. I mean, you seemed like you didn't care about any of that. I thought you'd end up single for the rest of your life, to be perfectly honest. Like, you don't seem like you'd kiss anybody, even. Why James?"

He sat down on my bed with me, and I adjusted myself from my slouch.

"I don't know. I just like him."

"So you like him back?"

I had no clue what to say then, but, I just decided to nod in response.

"Mum and Dad'll be furious. . ."

"I get that."

"Alastair, look, I just hope that you don't change because of him, okay? I'm not saying he'll get you to do something to yourself that you don't want to, or manipulate you into doing something, but just be careful, please. I won't interfere, but if he does something you don't like, you can come to me, okay?"

He left then, and I felt confliction rise in me. How was it so easy for Lewis to accept this? It would have taken Mum and Dad years, and he got over it over a few minutes. Maybe initial shock?

I lied back, and I tried to decide what to do next. What was there to do next?

That next morning, I wasn't allowed to see James again.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with suicide, in graphic detail, so if this is not your cup of tea, or triggering to you, please refrain from reading this chapter. If you want to read it anyway, please be in a sound state of mind when doing so, and I hope you enjoy, to your best ability. Your mental health is more important than some glowy words on a screen. <3

Lewis's gravestone sits on one of the farthest reaches of the graveyard, a section of the cemetery devoted to fallen soldiers.

It's still new-looking, the tips of blades of grass erupting from the dirt which covered his coffin. Soon, James would occupy a spot here. Soon, I'd come visit them both when I remembered I was all alone.

"Hey," I say to his gravestone. I run my fingertips over the rough granite used to make it. "You said I could come talk to you whenever about James. You probably already know, though. He's dead, and honestly, I don't have much left. You're gone, he's gone, otherwise, I'll be alone forever."

The rain kept pouring, the trees rustled, and I knelt over my brother's coffin.

"It's weird thinking you'll always be alone, you know? I know you wouldn't get it. . .you never were a loner in the first place. Always well-loved and cared about. We all loved you, Lewis. I'm sorry I never got to say goodbye to you like I should have."

If I'd been able to give my last goodbye to Lewis before he'd gone to that fight and drowned, maybe I wouldn't have come here and tried to talk to a corpse. He won't speak to me, I'm a madman trying to talk to him. Now, I stand up.

"Goodbye, Lewis."

I shuffle out of the cemetery, soaking wet from head to toe. There's no reason for me to go home. Not yet.

* * *

I guess I forgot nothing's open at night.

I try to go anywhere that I can wring that last bit of James out of, but at this point I cannot find anywhere else.

A week or two ago, the bookstore closed, and I browsed it before it shut it's doors for the last time. I found the corner where he'd read to me, and I curled up in it, forehead against my knees while I thought of him. No one acknowledged me until I was kicked out, and then they became concerned over my red face. Now, my only options are to go home, or to keep wandering.

I walk further, almost concerned for what I'll say if the constables find me. They'll probably think I'm high and try to arrest me, and I decide that's fine, I guess. My parents may or may not come to get me out, and in the end I'll have done something interesting.

It's difficult, thinking that my life has probably already ended. My parents are apathetic towards me, my brother and best friend are dead, and the moment I try to decide what I'll do in the future, nothing comes to mind. I can't conjure up a jealous fantasy, and now there isn't even the option of living with James.

I can only think of what could have been.

Optimistically, we'd be living together in a secluded flat, and we'd be practically married. However, it's easier to imagine James having fling after fling with many different men, all while I ignore it and cover my ears. I stop, and try to dig into my backpack.

Every single letter is drenched in water, ink running down the page, unreadable now. I throw my bag down, and take them all out. All of these letters, all precious and all sentimental, ruined.

Now, that's really it of him. I throw them all in my bag, and decide to dash back home. There's no point staying out here, because I know what I want to do now.

* * *

It takes me nearly an hour to trudge back home, drowning beneath wet clothes that constrict and freeze me. What will I do without the letters? They're the last thing that had meaning to me, and I'm certain the book is trashed, too. I look inside, and surely enough, each page has become wavy and grey-streaked. For a moment, I have to stop and sniffle into the sleeve of my jacket.

Nothing. It's such a sickening word. I can't believe that it can perfectly describe me now.

I try to think if I am really so pointless now, and I'm certain of it. It's sad to think that I am useless, that I mean nothing. Only a block away from my house, and I haven't got a plan.

I wasn't sure if I could easily sneak into the bathroom, I wasn't sure how loud I'd be.

In only a few minutes, I have to consider every variable of what I'm about to do. Thoughts are swimming too quickly to place, yet I end up on the same one.

First, I will go upstairs. I will remove my wet clothes, I'll wear something warm.

Next, I'll sneak into the bathroom. I will draw out the razor and maybe a bottle of pills. I had read a book a while back describing a gorgeous death, one where a woman had cut her wrists after consuming a bottle of pills. If I was going to do this, I'd want it to be slow, the last thing I ever experience.

Once I have done all of that, I'll try to play every memory I had with James in my head. If I make it through them all and I'm still not dead, I'll keep repeating until my heart stops and I don't hear, see, or feel, ever again.

If I fail, I'll cut harder, deeper, I'll try to sever my veins. It'll be more desperate then. I'll swallow every pill, I'll go get more and take them all, my throat dry and all while I cough them up. My body will reject my decision, all up until it cannot take anymore and I am gone, myself. Why waste many years letting myself slowly run down and become a shell, when I could just end it all now?

I'll keep poisoning myself and bleeding out until I collapse and die, more or less poetically.

My parents are not there to guilt or ground me for being out until three in the morning. Lewis isn't there to offer to watch TV and drown out the sound of our conversations with commercials. James isn't there to hold me while I cry and confess my plan to kill myself.

There really is nothing.

I remove my shoes at the door, and leave my hood up on the coat hook to dry. Water drips onto the floor in a monotonous pattern, and once I'm upstairs it's shushed.

First, I change. Jumper, pyjama bottoms, something to make it look like I had just fallen asleep after not eating for a few days.

I move to the bathroom, my wet clothes lying at the foot of my bed. If I remembered correctly, a woman came into our class a year or two back, and told us the most common types of drugs people will overdose on, to make us refuse to take them. Little did she know that information would backfire on her.

Searching the medicine cabinet, I grab a few plastic bottles, and find a few single-edged blades to take back with me. Pain killers, antidepressants, anything I could find that I knew could kill me, really. If I was feeling more risky, I'd have found my dad's beer and stolen one to take the pills with. But, even gathering all of my planned items has worn me out.

So, I close my door, and throw them all out onto my nightstand. I take the painkillers first, all with water, and then lie down into bed, burying myself. At least I'll be comfortable.

Each pill felt dry going down my throat, and I choked more than once trying to swallow multiple.

Anxiety prevents me from immediately cutting myself, instead I just watch, wondering if maybe the pills will be enough. I wish I could have had something more to do while I waited for the pills to take their affect.

I curl into bed, holding my hands in front of my face, sobbing a bit vocally into them. This much noise is going to draw attention.

Picking up the razor, I prepare to hurt myself.

I ran it across my wrist. I thought it'd hurt much longer than it did, but it only faded into a dull, throbbing kind of pain. Again, I cut. I keep doing it until about five bloody marks are made on my arm, and my head begins pulsing. Now, my thoughts are going entirely blurry.

James, he's the first one to pop into my head. He was holding me, while I buried my face into him, myself pale and my wrists stained red. His leg was slowly decaying, and he, too, was white as a ghost. I lean into him, but stop, only moments later. My eyes still move. James holds me closer, and we both are still. I open my eyes, expecting to see him lying beside me, telling me to make myself puke and that he'll get the first aid kit.

He is nowhere.

The thought inspires me to place a deeper, harsher cut along my right wrist, and I whimper as it leaves it's trail. Too deep. Perfect.

I close my eyes again, my breathing becoming rough and ragged.

Lewis, telling me not to kill myself. Telling me what to do if I regret trying to commit suicide halfway through. I lied against him after a while, and I don't hear one word he says. I sit up, lean over my bed, trying not to vomit. Instead, I start coughing. Up come a few pills, then a few more. As quickly as I can I go to the bathroom, and throw my head into the toilet bowl.

I sob while stomach acids burn my throat, and I imagine a hand pat my back. Looking up from the porcelain, I see James. Why can't he really be here?

As I begin to sit up, I fall back, and he steadies me. I'm shaking and pale and have bile on my breath, but he still kisses me. He holds me still, and tells me that I shouldn't have done it. I don't say anything. My throat hurts.

I lean further into the toilet, and choke up the last few pills. The blood is beginning to soak through my jumper sleeve, and it leaves a red streak on the seat as I sit up. I wish I had brought the other pills with me, but, I go back to looking through the medicine cabinet. It hurts standing, and I wobble at the knees like a baby deer, until I fall back down, back hitting the tub. I've got another thing of painkillers, and begin finishing them all.

There were more in this bottle than the other, and soon I'm back to gasping for air and I imagine James again.

He's disappointed I took more pills, and he tells me to stop, and that I'm not ready to die. I disagree with him, and my vision is flickering.

"You're dying," he looks and sounds horrified, and he begins tearing up. "Alastair, _no_." His voice is weak, and I stare up at him, becoming scared myself.

He holds me in his arms, my blood getting on him. I'm light-headed, I hold him closer and beg him not to leave me. I continue to shiver.

"I love you," he tells me, cupping my white-flushed cheek.

"I love you too, James." I try to say, but I gag.

In my lap, sit about twelve undigested pills, all put to waste. The rest still have me dizzy, and I know soon I'll be dead. Once I am, I'll see James again. I'll see Lewis. I won't be alone once I'm dead.

It actually makes me a bit happy realising that I'll see them again.

I must not have noticed myself sobbing while I was overdosing, and I heard a "What's wrong?" come from down the hall. I say nothing.

I flush the toilet, I throw away the evidence and I crawl into bed. In the morning, I'll be nothing more than a lukewarm body wrapped up in blankets.

* * *

It's unfortunate the moment I wake up.

Bright lights surround me, and I feel the need to get up and walk myself out of here. Too many people stand round me, all shocked to see me awake.

"Alastair?" My mum asks, holding my hand closer to her chest.

Dad looks equally worried, and I see Alexandra there, as well. I want to leave now.

The three look utterly amazed, and my mum was ecstatic when I blinked, eyes filling with tears.

"Why aren't I dead?" I question, trying to turn my head to look round the room.

Mum shushes me, demanding my suicidal thoughts be shut up just because she didn't find them pleasing.

"Honey, we found you in bed with your wrists torn up and you weren't breathing. We got you in as soon as possible, and the doctors got your heart beating again. We were afraid you'd already died."

I glance in her direction. My breathing is incredibly shallow.

"Mum, I wanted to die." I notice the doctor directing me not to talk, so after that I stop.

"No, no, sweetie. The therapist will come round and talk to you about that. Alexandra came by to apologise, and that's when we found you like that."

I ignore them, and I watch the ceiling. When will I be out of here? When will I be standing up again, walking, talking like normal, maybe even feeling better? I have no clue anymore. All I know is that the moment I get out, I'm going to try to kill myself again.

It was only out of "We're related" that my parents took me to the hospital. I want to go back to sleep, to forget that my mum was so serious about me attempting suicide, and to possibly imagine anything else.

It's dark.

* * *

For a moment, I could see James sitting at my bedside, like he'd been there a while. He was holding my hand without the IV in it and asking me if I was alright. I nod, and wince at the soreness in my throat. He laces our fingers together, and I turn to get a closer look at him. He's looking red at the cheeks, and I smile a little.

"Don't do that again, alright? I love you, you don't deserve to die like that. You deserve a full life, and I'll be here to see it."

"But, you're dead. . .you can't keep coming back to watch me, huh?"

"You've been imagining me all night, Alastair, just take it as I'll always be there."

I smile a bit bigger, but it hurts to do so. I'm smiling at an imagined James, who's only saying what I want him to. I just want my James back, right now, where he'll be sitting beside me and holding back tears because he didn't think I'd make it out alive.

"I miss you."

"I miss you, too. But soon we'll both be together again, if you keep trying to kill yourself."

"Everyone I love is dead. Why shouldn't I join them?"

"Because we don't want you here yet. We'll see you again, but for now you have to stay alive."

"Why? Just to suffer because you and Lewis are dead and I'll never see you both again?"

"You don't realise how wrong you are."

James rubs the back of my hand, very gently, and I lean up to try and kiss him. I can't. Instead, he leaves a gentle peck on my forehead, before I wake up again.

None of that meant anything. Because James is dead and I'm hallucinating. It doesn't mean anything.

I keep telling myself that, because otherwise, I'd actually believe that I should keep living.

Over the next few days a therapist comes in to talk me through why I tried to kill myself. Her attention, however, is only ever drawn to the bandages on my wrists. I don't ever talk when she comes in. She just reads over the file of what my parents had assumed happened, with the help of police.

Apparently I'd sat outside for a few hours, came back in, changed my clothes, accidentally cut myself, taken too many pain killers, and cut myself purposefully while hallucinating, and wrapped myself up in bed. In the file, it didn't seem like they'd made it out to be a suicide attempt. It's funny how they lie to themselves like that.

* * *

It took me about a few days to recover, and once I was able to stand, somewhat, they'd decided that I could be sent home.

I lie in bed a few more weeks, wishing I could be up and walking again. In some ways, I'd actually like to be fine again. To be able to go through each day without breaking down and crying, to keep my mind from turning to reminiscent fog every hour. To act like a normal person with a perfectly bland life.

Is he going to come back? Will he give me the satisfaction of showing his face again, of trying to communicate with me while I stare off into space, giving answers to questions no one else can hear? Now, I do hope so. Anything like that will make me feel better.

"It'd be great if you came back."

I'm weak again. Mentally and now physically. I could just step int the bathroom, I could drown myself, cut myself, I could do anything that'd take me out of this misery I'm going to be stuck back into.

James must be taking great pleasure in making me feel like this. In coming back whenever he feels like it, making me small and needy. I want to look over and see him sitting beside me, glad to see that I'm not dead and I made it home with few complications.

However, it seems as if he's decided that I should wait on his appearance.

Now it almost feels like his image is slipping away from me again. I miss his eyes. The certain shine they'd hold, the way they'd crinkle when he smiled very large. I missed seeing his smile, when he'd make a joke or he'd see me. His eyes would light up in a certain way when he'd see me, one that I don't think could ever be replicated. He only lit up that way for me. I couldn't even hope I'd ever hear his soft, breathy laugh again. Not a faint memory of the sound will remain, the choppy hiss like he himself was an overheating tea kettle. And one day I'll even faintly remember with whom I associate the name "James."

My head is aching, and now my heart is, too.

* * *

I think a part of me snapped when the letters were ruined that night. I had enough to remember Lewis by, with his pictures all round the house, with how often relatives talk about him, I actually can remember Lewis.

But James, he's elusive and strange. There's really no evidence I ever knew him, not after the letters were destroyed and my mum and dad refused to talk about him after the funeral, shared with about twenty other grieving families. There's a simple little plaque, with the name "James Spencer" written on it.

But, the birth date is wrong. The plaque says he was born in 1951, when he was born in 1961. It's a simple mistake that no one else takes note of.

I come back long after everyone has left, to where only a janitor remains, sweeping up what little dust has pooled on the floor. I sit down in the pew, and right ahead of me sits James's plaque. The last time I was in this church he was alive, and he was sad, and seeing him like that hurt me. Now, I remember his face.

Almost akin to a movie, I fall over myself, my hands come to my face, and I let out this weak sob. My back jerks harshly, enough to where I feel like I am shaking the pew. I don't want to remember him like that: mourning his father and trying to laugh off the pain he felt. Why can't I remember him laughing in the bookstore with me, hiding low in my basement, kissing me that night?

Maybe I was convinced we'd be together forever, no matter how idealistic it does sound. He would have been there to shush me when I was crying that night, petting down my hair, warming me up with his own body while he convinced me that I was loved and that I shouldn't think I needed to kill myself to be with someone I love. If he hadn't have been shot, he'd have come home to me, kissed me deep and slowly and making sure that I truly felt like his.

If James hadn't been shot I wouldn't have tried to kill myself that night.  
  
If James had been curled up in bed with me, cuddling up to me, ideally naked and with sweat cooling on his skin, I'd never have liver damage or scars crossing my skin. I'd be happy, I'd be nuzzling into him and insisting to shower with him and lick beads of hot water off his neck while he squirmed against the tile wall.

I remind myself I'm in a church.

Stupidly, I decide to pull back the sleeve of my suit, unbutton my shirt's wrist, and see the garish marks fading on my skin. Now they are pink, but they are hideous and I feel ashamed of myself when I look at them. I press my hand over my left wrist, and look back up. My eyes meet a large crucifix, painted white and hanging above a large window just above the preacher's podium. If I really did still believe, I'd kneel over and pray that James be alright in the afterlife.

James was a sort of gift after Lewis's death. He comforted me when I so sorely needed it. I wish I could repay him for all he'd done.

"I love you, I'm so sorry," is all I can mutter out of my mouth before I notice my mum hovering over me.

When we leave in pure silence, I turn back. Where is James's photograph? There's an older man's picture near his plaque. They couldn't even find a picture of James to properly commemorate his death.

 


	13. Chapter 13

It's been hard living without a purpose for the last few months.

I've drifted away from my studies, and gone to writing little story fragments whenever I actually feel the desire to place my pen onto a piece of paper.

Even writing seems like a traumatic event when I think for more than a moment about it. But he's gone. I need to accept he's not coming back and that, while it'll hurt for the rest of my life, my soulmate was killed.

I remove my pen from the paper, a large blotch of black sitting marking where it was.

The paper is immediately crumpled up and thrown into my overflowing rubbish bin, where I know at the bottom sits the wrecked letters he wrote me. And my brain tells me to dig to the bottom, and pull out one, and try to read it when the letters are nearly dissolved and were eaten by the harsh rain.

My life depended on him being in it. It's pathetic how I planned to be with him. How I imagined this gorgeous man would remain in my life for as long as we both lived, sharing a home with me, waking up in the same bed, drinking tea on opposite sides of the table, snuggling up on the sofa while he watched TV and I would occasionally write out a whole sonnet dedicated to his face.

But now it is pointless to do that. Who will care to read the words of a sad boy who fell in love with a boy who died?

I twitch, and I nuzzle back into bed.

I haven't seen him since I was in the hospital. I haven't seen him come over to crawl into bed with me, plant reassuring kisses on my cheeks while I bask in the attention. I've just dreamed that we're curled up together and he's real and we're still together.

It felt almost painful recalling the harsh words Alexandra screamed at me the day we learned he died.

"You're never going to understand what it's like to lose your only will to live."

And it's sad that we both lost that day.

Maybe Alexandra had some right to scream in my face, I would have told her off in the same fashion had I not been such a goddamn pussy. I sit forward and let the sort of serenity of not feeling wash over me.

My vow to attempt to kill myself again hasn't been fulfilled. I simply am sitting, cross-legged on my bed while I stare off into space. Really, I haven't felt up to trying again. Maybe it hasn't been so bad feeling how I have for these past few months, seeing flashes of James's face every now and again, imagining I can see his figure from the corner of my eye. And maybe I do imagine him sometimes. I can pretend I see him standing in the doorway when I wake up, and see him walking at a snail's pace down the hall. He's just a shadow now, all colour faded from his being.

Just sad greys, whites, and blacks. He's turning dull the longer I try to forget him.

He told me to move on. Why can't I make this easy and stop thinking of him already? I'll watch him turn the corner, his feet padding down the stairs, and his shadow will lead me to the kitchen. I'll almost feel myself light up, thinking James will be leaning against the table, smiling at me in that cocky way. But every time I follow this shadow, it only leads me to a sterile, empty kitchen.

Mum and Dad have gone somewhere again today. They've stopped taking me with them, even talking to me. It's like no one else even lives in this house.

I fall over onto the sofa, and reach to turn on the TV.

It's another news story about another man who claimed to save his whole platoon during some event that didn't happen.

"My whole squadron was cornered by these guys, all really ugly and twisted and hairy. They were jabbing at my guys with their guns, threatening to blow their heads off if they didn't lead them to base camp and kill everyone there. I step up from behind, they hadn't seen me, because I camouflaged myself, and I gunned them all down. We celebrated at the pub, and every single soldier, every wife and child of all those guys, have thanked me and called me a hero. But my guys like to joke around and say it's a lie. All in good fun, of course."

The newscaster is eating it up, and she rests her hand on his, thanking him for being a hero. The guy gives this grin that rubs me wrong in every single way, and I wonder if James knew him. If he did, I couldn't see him liking the guy. I could imagine he was also rubbed the wrong way by him.

When I go to turn the channel, he then starts another story.

"There was a soldier who had an iron lung. He was really popular with us, and we all talked to him. One night, I had been tasked to watch over him while he slept, and then, out of nowhere, an enemy guy burst in. He held me at gunpoint, and unfortunately he shot my friend in the head. Another soldier, some little punk kid who came in to soak in the glory at the end of the war, he came in after the guy left. He acted all dramatic, he shook and turned white, like he was doing it on cue and had it rehearsed. He would have screamed if I hadn't thrown him out to fetch a medic. I don't know where he is now, but I'm pretty sure that he's seeing this broadcast. He knows who he is, and he should know he's scum."

I turn off the TV.

It's strangely quiet in the house while I stand there, in the middle of my living room, head spinning while this lying sack of shit spouts untrue stories past his yellowing teeth. My hands ball into fists, and my nails dig into my palms. They tremble, all the fucking rage that currently searing in my veins. My blood boils, and with that, I let out the scream that James hadn't.

My voice is shaky, and very unlike myself, it is loud and it sounds like some animal shriek. I feel breathless as my scream trails off, and once I've finished, I immediately storm up to my room. I throw out all of the supplies I'll ever need, paper, pens, and I tug the ruined letters from the waste bin, to rewrite them as best as I can manage.

This man, this horrific man who never knew my James just belittled him on national TV, and now everyone will believe this nameless man never did a damn thing in his military career. And he'll get away with it, but I'm going to try to prevent it, even if it is futile to try.

I can't say I've been taking James's advice very close to heart. But I'm not going to let his reputation be sabotaged by some man who's lying for publicity, and wasn't even there to see the man with the iron lung shot. James wouldn't lie like this man does, not to further his success or recognition. He'd lie to keep those he loves safe. And he doesn't deserve to be talked about like he's nothing more than a dumb kid who wanted to ride the fact he was in the army towards the end of the war.

But, I don't know what I'm going to do. First thing, I'll have to cover up the fact that we're both male. And my first instinct is to write under a female pseudonym. However, it seems like it will be an uninspired move, as other widows will do just the same with their stories, and succeed more than I could ever hope to.

My story will reach no one, or disgust everyone if they learn the story involves two males. And James will never get closure.

Though, it seems honesty is the best route here. No one knows me, no one will remember _me_ , only the story. And if it ends up I decide that in the end, I have given up on life, I'll kill myself, and the sales will skyrocket, knowing both the author and the subject are dead. Everyone will know James's story in the end.

I hold my pen up from the paper, hovering it just an inch above. I have no clue how I'm going to start my story. How does one start a sort of novel like this? Will it be entirely nonfictional, will it be a memoir?

For a moment, I sit perfectly still, trying to piece together the perfect beginning to this story.

_James Spencer and I met in 1974._

I draw my pen away, only a moment, and try to process if this is the route I want to go. This opening isn't mind-blowing, it's nothing more than a simple statement of fact. I met James five years ago. And I lost him five months ago.

_Back when we met, James was thirteen. He was already popular, but the day he first spoke to me I felt giddy. Maybe it was the fact that he was the first real friend I'd ever made, one that wasn't a printed book character, or an imaginary monster I made out of a sock and buttons. Or maybe it was the fact he was so much older and I saw him as cool. Just because he happened to be two years older, he was so interesting, and it surprised me how he was actually interested in me._

Already I want to destroy this piece of paper. This intro isn't good.

I crumple it, and throw it to the rubbish bin, where it sits on the floor with other discarded papers.

There's no way I can do this story justice. All I really can do is try to write an actual good introduction and work from there.

* * *

_The last time I saw James Spencer alive, we were torn apart and carried off by our parents._

_James Theodore Spencer was born in 1961, and succumbed to gangrene in 1979, at the age of 18. He was a reluctant soldier, sent to war half by punishment of his mother and half wanting to make his dead father proud. In life, all he wanted was to live a long, comfortable life with his soulmate. Everyone he knew loved him, and his reputation of being well-liked remained untarnished until the day a bloke went on air, anonymously bashing him into the ground right after his premature death._

_The moment I saw this, I knew right away I had to let everyone know James's story, actually_ know _him as best they can, before they believe that idiotic git's story. I know I'll never be able to recapture James's spirit onto 300 or so pages, but I can only hope that he will be able to feel that I've tried to aid him in any way, and that even from beyond the grave, he is still in the hearts of those he knew and loved._

_The story of how we met is hazy and foggy, and I cannot remember under what circumstances we first began talking, but it spawned into a five-year friendship. I can only recall events from very recently in our relationship, maybe only a year or two back at the earliest._

* * *

I want to look over my shoulder and see him sitting on my bed, legs crossed and hands in his lap. Maybe if I come close to that gateway of death I will see him again, instead of feeling a chill rush over me every now and again.

When I lie down in bed, I want to feel him lying on the other side, turned away, resting while he nuzzles deeper in the covers. I just want to see my James.

It's night, the sky is black and I should already be in bed. I know I don't sleep anymore, but I want to rest my eyes for a while.

All the effort in the world couldn't do justice to James. It doesn't matter what I try. Every attempt will come crashing down and I will despise everything I write about him. Nothing will sound right. I'll portray him the wrong way.

I curl into bed, and it seems like the best course of action right now is to do something dramatically stupid just because I need to see him. Even if it's just a moment, I'll see his face, I'll remember his smile and even just that much will be enough for weeks.

Mum and Dad, in bed, once again they've spent another day avoiding their son.

It's only when I am gathering alcohol that I realise I can go nameless. I'll give a pseudonym, a male one, I'll try my best and I'll write something amazing.

Or maybe I don't write this book. Maybe I let myself fall asleep, give myself time to unwind so I can properly assess if I want to really even do this.

By the time I'm standing in front of my dad's liquor collection, my head is fogging up and I can't think right. I want to sit down, rub my temples and rug at my skin until the throbbing passes.

Instead, I grab two beers. Simple enough. Enough to get me at least tipsy enough to where he might appear.

I quickly regroup in my room, and I'm standing in the middle. I want to offer the other room temperature beer to someone. But, there's no one. I set the bottle down on the bedside table. The first, scribbly draft sits underneath the second bottle, and I take it, shredding it into tiny pieces before trying to throw the confetti into the bin. It quite obviously misses, and now my floor is decorated with little, torn up pieces of writing paper.

As best I can, I twist open the beer. The initial hiss is inviting, it sounds like a soda being cracked open. However, the carbonation overflows, spilling onto the bed. I take it, and I swig back enough to where it can't make any more mess. The neck is empty, and I set it down, resting it against the back of my knee. It tastes absolutely disgusting in my mouth, but I do think it is tolerable. Tolerable enough to drink when you're slowly slipping back into depression, of course.

I harshly swallow again, hoping to wash away the majority of the aftertaste. Then, I pick up another piece of paper.

_"In 1979, I lost the love of my life. In 1979, I fell so hard."_

The pen drops from my grasp, leaving a somewhat elegant black line furling down the page. It lands in my lap, and I immediately pick it back up. _That_ is an intro.

As my writing becomes more rough and jagged, I start to become aware of a fleeting presence. I can feel cool prickles rushing up my skin, down my spine, and all through my being. I am shivering like a small child sans winter jacket.

This feeling of dread is building up as I begin to recognise the pinpricks of chill as fingertips. They smoothly run across my exposed skin, and beneath the cloth of my pyjamas.

" _The day he died, I felt a piece of me drift away forever. I have no recovered that missing piece he stole away from me. And as I write this, I can feel his transparent fingers, and I can feel a chilly gust of breath on the back of my neck, telling me that I will be okay."_

I want him to speak. I need to hear him again, to bathe in the soft voice he used to comfort me with. In some way, I can imagine his voice.

He is reading. I hear him recite the lines " _Think of two people, living together day after day, year after year, in this small space, standing elbow to elbow cooking at the same small stove, squeezing past each other on the narrow stairs, shaving in front of the same small bathroom mirror, constantly jogging, jostling, bumping against each other's bodies by mistake or on purpose, sensually, aggressively, awkwardly, impatiently, in rage or in love--think of what deep though invisible tracks they must leave, everywhere, behind them!_ "

It feels like my chest has been stabbed, and the object that tore past my rib cage is curling around within me, wringing out excess blood and doling out as much anguish as it can manage. And once, after an excruciating process of memory, it does happen to remove itself, I am left to fall back, with not a wound within my abdomen, but my heart feeling ripped like it were nothing more than a poorly-cut family dinner.

All that could have been. Sharing a home with James. It wouldn't have been large, it wouldn't have been an exquisite house. Just enough for the both of us to comfortably fit. Sleeping on a sheet-less mattress, curling up beneath a blanket that's likely older than the both of us combined. Rubbing circles into each other's skin, tracing out oral displays of affection indented into our flesh, feather-light kisses against deep purple bruises. Leaning up into each other and kissing roughly when there's no energy left to have sex.

If I had the patience for it, I'd masturbate. I could manage to slip my hand into my boxers, but I refrain. Now, I just want to drink until I see James again.

* * *

_Our love affair began back in 1977. We were a little younger, both bright-eyed and very optimistic. It took me a while to understand that our feelings weren't platonic. I think inside me, I wanted to believe it would never escalate to something so scandalous. Maybe I believed kissing in the dark would ween off my affections._

_It was stupid of me to think I wouldn't fall harder for him._

_We'd sit outside, when the moon was casting bright reflections onto our skin. By the time I had turned fifteen I'd become a pretty good kisser, and he would spend minutes studying my face between kisses. I think he liked my eyes most, how light bounced off of them. He'd place a kiss on my forehead, and lean over to whisper to me that I looked absolutely beautiful in the moonlight._

_In the wee hours of the morning was when he became particularly romantic, yet I think I liked it more when he would joke with me._

_There were times he'd tell me he'd found a girl, and he was going to marry her and have three kids. But the first time, when I did believe it, he reassured me that up to that point in his life he considered me his. I was his love._

_He'd laugh and convince me to put on makeup so he could hold me on his shoulder as his gorgeous girlfriend. I joked he'd do the same, and he dramatically dropped to his knees, incredibly offended I'd called him ugly. "You'd look fetching with peach blush," I'd tell him while holding his cheeks and planting a kiss on the tip of his nose._

_On New Years, he danced in the living room with me. Our parents had gone off to their own party with the friends they had back then, and I'd decided to watch the ball drop with him. We drank champagne his mother gave to us, and tipsy as we were, we still managed to draw off each other's shirts and kiss on the couch, grinding until about two. We'd been found, lying on top of each other, by our parents. But, they seemed to brush it off._

_When we woke up, we locked ourselves up in my room, and continued what we'd done earlier. It ended with the both of us knotted up in the covers, me watching him while he drifted off to sleep._

* * *

After two bottles of putrid beer, I can't see James. And now I can't hear his voice.

I immediately become distraught. I think his spirit has left me. He's gone.

My only instinct is to curl up into a ball, tucking my head against my knees. My back tenses and shakes, but no tears pass. I can't utter any noise.

And maybe it's for the best.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten Years Later

It is strange, where I am now.

The lights here are brighter, they are clear and they remove the stars from the night sky. In the days, thousands of bodies crowd the streets and sidewalks. There is less snow, but the chill of winter still runs through all of us.

Just today, another war has ended. You can hear people rejoicing from every corner of the country, and now everyone is positively radiant that England managed to survive another war. Of course more innocent men are gone. A few months ago I celebrated the day of his death by drinking until I collapsed. My tolerance has gone up since I was sixteen.

It's strange to remember that James was ever even real. The the cocky smile, musical laugh, and the chapped lips, that I'd seen, heard, and tasted them only ten years ago. And that now I'm just a sad young man. A few other books published under pseudonyms, enough to where I can buy a bottle or two of wine every week to save for when the feeling of numbness overtakes me. So I can laugh, and I forget what it's like to not feel.

I'm not famous. No one knows my face, but they all know my stories. I'm simply an observer, seeing this people try to guess who in their community wrote that book about being in love with a soldier. Of course, there are those people who, in fact, are convinced it's not a true story. In the end I was dumb when I decided to write the book and add my own name on the front. I can go day to day without glares, but even one eye-roll when I'm recognised makes me feel upset and weak.

Only two or three people still talk to me after I wrote that novel. Mum, Dad, and Alexandra. The moment they saw the book, the moment they all read the dust cover, they learned what I used to cope for the last three years of my teenage life. Constantly rewriting, tearing up passages I hated, screaming at myself when I got a memory wrong. All leading to a book that, with age, only became more and more popular. I hope he's proud of me.

And yet, despite the wretched feeling building in my heart, I can only recall that day I waited at the train station.

Two weeks after the war was over, every living soldier came home. I stood in back, hoping James would sidle out of the train car last, and he'd rush over. Hug me, cup my cheeks, and we'd both be failing at holding back tears. I'd freeze up, a smile on my face so large it hurt my cheeks. Bury our faces in each other, whisper to each other how we were certain we'd never meet again. And we'd walk home, holding hands tightly despite already squeezing against each other.

Instead, I stood there for three hours. It only took an hour to clean out the train car, but I still waited, hoping another train would come up. Widows, girlfriends, daughters, small children also stood on the platform. Women patted their eyes dry with handkerchiefs, children tugged at sleeves and asked "Where's Daddy?"

I can feel a sort of twist in my heart, as reality crushes down on everybody. We all make that same commute home, eyes red and tears drizzling down ashen faces. But, when the children realised their fathers weren't coming home, they'd start screaming, bawling, or silently sobbing into their hands or mothers. It almost hurt, seeing them cry like that when they just barely understood death.

Among all these happy people, I feel out of place. I don't belong here. I'm not smiling, I'm not cheering up for the holidays, I look like the dead and feel just the same.

I am standing in front of a store window, peaking in to see what books there are there now. Maybe this bookstore will have a nook I can crawl into.

When in times of great stress, or great sadness, people will revert into a weak state of being. And when I'm weak, I try to relive any good memories I still can recall. Ever since I moved out, I can't recall any one time I truly felt happy, more than storms of depression and loneliness, then the quiet solitude of numbness.

Now, I decide to enter the store. A bell rings when I push the door open, and the clerk greets me with a small smile on her lips.

"Hello," her voice is cool and slow.

I nod at her, and give an even smaller, fake smile.

"What are you looking for?" She stares up at me, tilting her head in the gentlest way possible.

"I don't know," I haven't spoken aloud in about a month, nothing more than sobs, shrieks, small whispers of "why?"

"James" hasn't passed my lips in six years. I've thought his name every single day, every moment I'd wake up, every little memory of him, all that we could have been. My whole life is centered round James.

"I could show you some new books." She stands straighter. Had I been interested in women, I would have taken longer than a moment to acknowledge her figure, and her surprisingly striking face. But, I more or less just shake my head, and go to wander by myself.

As I travel further through the store, I feel tense. I hear voices, as if another person is in here. So, I turn towards the right, to avoid that person. I'm not sure if they even are there to begin with, if my mind is deciding to play over a verbal memory I can't decipher.

 _You had to corrupt him!_ , I hear Alexandra's shrill whine clearly as I run my fingers along the jutted spines of well-loved books. I exhale, shutting my eyes a moment, and stopping still in my tracks.

I'm twenty six. I'm not some pathetic child, some distraught young thing with no sense of self control. I needn't keep crying about the past. When I get home, then I can be self destructive. Now, I'll just wander and see if I do end up finding a book.

Towards the front of the store, I catch a glimpse of it.

" _Tears Upon Old Scars_ ," written by some nonexistent man.

I pick it up.

It's strange seeing my own book in a store, especially when it's the last one. I flip open the cover, to the first page.

" _Dedicated to James Spencer._ "

My brow furrows, and I move my hand up to my mouth. My sobs remain internal.

"Are you alright?" The cashier approaches me, and I don't respond.

She stands beside me in silence, poking over my shoulder to read the page.

I close it, hoping she will go back to her job and I won't break into tears like a fussy baby. Her eyes go a bit wide for a moment, until her whole face settles into a sympathetic expression. It's almost surreal knowing that she at least knows of my book.

"Are you the author?" She points at my name.

Those thin printed letters. Alastair McIntosh. I've forgotten my own name.

"Yes," I can choke out, as I turn it over in my hand and read the back.

"It was incredible." She smiles warmly, but it fades. "I'm sorry about James."

Hearing someone else say his name is even worse. I set the book back down on the shelf, and I try to decide if I'm going to wander off outside or not.

The woman doesn't want me to, but I move along, anyway.

* * *

I've debated with myself whether I want to spend Christmas alone or not. The past six Christmases alone, no calls, no presents, just sitting in front of the telly watching some horrific holiday film that feels exactly the same as all the others.

It's the twenty-third.

I go to the kitchen, to go grab a nearly-empty bottle of wine. Maybe I should just drink myself to death. I think I have a fresh razor in the bathroom. I'll drown myself in the tub or the sink. Overdose.

This is typical thinking now. And now it doesn't scare me when I'm wanting to kill myself.

I've lived. I've fucked, been fucked, drank like a clubber, been in love. That's all dumb teenagers can hope for.

When I am passing back to the living room, I see I've got messages on my answering machine.

I forget how to use it.

I play them all over, and collapse back onto the couch.

The recorded, grainy voice reads off numbers, ones I can't place to any one person in my life.

First it's a guy who took me home three days ago. Second is another guy from six days ago. Then another, and another, and about five more messages all from guys wanting me to call back. Their messages are getting deleted.

Then, I hear a female voice.

"Hello, Alastair. I'm just calling to invite you to our Christmas party this year. I'm hoping you're feeling up to it, and can come, I hate thinking you're stuck up in your flat never getting out. We haven't seen you since you left, but now your father isn't as angry. Alexandra even wants to see you. I hope you can come. We all miss you so much."

I exhale, and I go to dial her number out. I'm not drunk yet, I could drive up there right now. Spend Christmas Eve and Christmas with them, come back, and dive deep into New Year's depression.

"Mum?" My voice shakes.

The line is silent, until I hear a sort of gasp.

"Alastair! Alastair's calling, come down here!" She screams, hand covering the receiver.

I sigh, and lean against the wall, hip bumping a bit too hard. I wince, and put both my hands around the phone.

"Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad," I fake a sing-song sort of tone, and look down.

"Oh my god, I thought you weren't going to call me back!"

"I'm coming down tonight." I try to decide what presents I should get them, but in the end I give up. I'll just give them one of the nicer bottles of wine I have.

"Really? It's snowing badly out there. About three inches in the past hour." She actually sounds concerned. I hate her hypocrisy.

I poke my head outside, and see not one flake of snow. It's likely only rough on their end.

"Yeah, I'll make it. I need to spend the holidays with someone," I hold my hand over the receiver when my breath gets shaky.

"You've been completely alone?"

"No one wants to hang out with a faggot, Mum."

I can almost hear her gasp.

"Are you alright?"

"Bye, Mum. See you in the morning." I hang up before she can question me further.

Why did I say that? I wanted to stay low-key about the fact that I hate myself and this year's been rougher than it should have been.

Ten years and I'm not over it. Ten years and it still makes me depressed every time I think about him. I forget the exact details of his face but I still get teary-eyed remembering his.

I need to get out.

* * *

I wrap the wine poorly, and throw on a jacket. I'll just wear the same thing to sleep. I grab my painkillers, for headaches, and I begin immediately to go.

The drive is boring, and I have to practice acting normal in the car. I make sure my fake smiles crinkle my eyes, and I really should have showered and brushed my teeth before I left. I'll pick up a toothbrush and toothpaste at the store before I go back home.

It'll be hell walking back in there again. But, then again, it'll be worse coming home. Where the most I can do is lie totally still and perfectly numb.

Why do I think I should go back? I could have just gone home with a guy at some gay club, could have spent Christmas moaning and whimpering underneath some well-built guy who wanted me to call him 'Daddy.'

Maybe I'll jerk off in the shower later tonight.

I feel almost uncomfortable knowing I'll be back in that room again. It'll be spotless, so well-kept just because I haven't been in it.

Another sappy Christmas song is on the radio. One that makes me almost wish I had someone to badly sing with.

I turn to another station, one playing actual music.

Every song is sad. Like even the DJ is depressed. I don't appreciate the sad shit, but I'll tolerate it. Better than another song about Santa fucking somebody's mum.

As the songs turn sadder and sadder, I wonder why I'm still listening. It's not doing anything good for my mood, but I keep going with it. Maybe if I keep listening I'll drive off a cliff, into a snow bank, freeze to death, never make it to Mum and Dad's.

I pull off to the side of the road.

I sit, and I wonder again. I wonder why I'm being invited to a Christmas party, I wonder why I'm going. Maybe if I wonder hard enough I will actually get answers.

"To every single guy out there, I hope you're all having a great Christmas. With family, friends, cute bird down the street who likes rock. No one should be alone on Christmas." The DJ says, as he steps away from the mic.

Another DJ enters in, and ruins the vibe. He plays peppy, happy songs. And I turn off the station, sitting in silence on the side of the road. Now I have nothing distracting me from my thoughts.

I imagine another hypothetical.

James didn't die. He made it home safe, and ran off to go live his life, while everyone he loved believed he was dead. He tried to call, send me letters, but I never received them. He went quiet on the line whenever Mum or Dad answered the phone, he'd wait outside to send me letters, he'd waited for me for so long. One day he gave up, and never tried to find me again.

I lean over the wheel, and wonder why I have to make myself sad like this.

It takes me two more hours to get there, all while I keep getting anxious about why I'm going to be back at home with my parents.

I'll just lock myself up in my room again, I know it.

Maybe soon I'll be able to get drunk and be self destructive like I was already planning.

* * *

The moment I reach the driveway, I'm bothered by the light pouring out. There's a large shadow in the window, and I presume it's both my parents waiting for me. I wait a while in the car. Maybe if I just don't get out of the car they won't know I'm here. I'm not that lucky.

Out pours Mum, holding her robe closed and shivering in the snow. I step out of the car, and she immediately hugs me close. Her roots are grey now, yet she looks happy.

"Alastair!" She grins, holding me tight. I assume she's being kind, and doesn't make a comment about how I smell like beer and sweat.

"Mum," I say relatively silently, moving my tensing arm to wrap round her shoulders.

Dad follows suit, and I look over her shoulder at him. Beaten and run down, just as ever. Really, I'm not surprised.

"You're so handsome now, Alastair," she looks up at me, placing one hand on my cheek. I can tell the stubble is already growing back in. She looks back to Dad, and he shrugs.

"Not the same as Lewis."

My fake smile fades. I look away, and go back into the car to grab the wine.

"You didn't need to bring us anything," she insists.

I find it a bit sickening how sweet she's being to me. Maybe she finally realised I'm the only child she has left, and she's going to make fucking sure that I don't end up dead or completely gone from her life. A little late for the last one.

She takes the wine from my hand, and I follow them both inside.

"How many guys have you slept with since we last saw you?" Dad looks back at me, and I look down at my feet.

"Thirty," I smirk to myself. Dad doesn't appreciate the joke.

Mum pops open the bottle after opening it, and while she pours everyone a glass, Dad gives me a death glare.

"Do you have AIDS?"

"No. I only just recently started fucking guys left and right, Dad." I let my tone get harsh and cold. It's refreshing.

He glowers, and takes the glass from Mum's hand. He downs the whole thing. Maybe we're more alike now, I guess. In some aspects.

"You manipulate men into fucking you." He mumbles into his glass.

Mum glares at him, hitting his arm with the back of her hand. She whispers violently at him, and I swirl my wine while I listen to them argue.

After they've finished, I go back into the kitchen to pour myself more wine. I hope the initial visit is over soon, and I can go upstairs and cry about my dead boyfriend some more.

"What have you been doing, Alastair?" Mum asks, taking another sip of wine.

I feel tempted to take the whole bottle and drain it.

"Writing."

"That's it?"

I pick up the bottle, and start moving it towards my mouth.

"I'm single, no friends, family's three hours away, what else am I going to do?" I pour myself another glass, and go to sit back down.

"You really haven't found someone?" She looks worried. She's doing everything on cue, I know it.

"I did. Then he died." I take a long sip from my glass.

Dad scoffs, and Mum sighs.

"You need to move on, honey."

The phrase sounds unnatural as it passes her teeth. She should just stop trying to help me. As much as I sound like a whiny teenager again, she can't fucking help. She hasn't dared try to help for ten years.

"Why do you think I go out and pick up a guy from the club every few days?" I look over my glass at her.

Now she is starting to look furious. I'm getting to be annoying, I'm ruining their night. Just as expected, of course.

"I'll go now," is all I say before I drink the rest of my wine, and then head up to my room.

* * *

The empty room at the end of the hallway beckons to me, but I don't go towards it. I already closed up my mourning over Lewis, I'm not going to go back in there and torture myself over my brother being dead, too.

I, instead, veer off into the bathroom, to shower, brush my teeth, and hopefully check out if I look alright.

Surprisingly I don't look as horrible. Clothes too big for my current size, my bags look like they're fading. My hair is mussed up, but in that way I'm sure I wouldn't be ignored at a club if I came in like this.

I first brush my teeth, to get the wine and cheap beer taste out of my mouth. I'm sure there's other tastes in there I'm not identifying.

The moment I undress is when I remember I brought painkillers. They clatter to the floor, and I immediately kick them underneath my clothes.

I step into the shower. My mind is a haze for six solid minutes, which honestly feels nice once in a while. I can't think, I just breathe, and bask in hot water. When I leave here I'll be numb and empty and trying to slash up my wrist, but in the meantime, I feel content.

In the moment I don't even want to wash my hair or the rest of my body, I just want to stand in the heat for thirty more minutes until the water runs cold.

As I stand there, skin turning bright red under the cascade of boiling water, I start to think again.

What if not-dead James were to walk into the house right now? What does he look like now? Does he have scars? Does he stare into the distance whenever he's left to his own devices? How different is he now?

I shake the thoughts from my head. I want them all gone. I want everything in my head to erase itself so I can have a pleasant shower.

It's odd remembering how I wanted to take him in the shower so long ago. And it's so clear, that thought. Now, even just seeing him would be enough to stop my heart. I'd be pleased just knowing he's alive and okay.

That possessive side of me seemed to have faded off a long time ago. Now, I'd be so lucky as to even just hug him.

He couldn't have still been in that phase. I know for a fact it was a phase for him. I bet hypothetically-alive James is married now. He and his wife are happy, and they'd come to the Christmas party, announcing she's three months pregnant.

The party would laugh and celebrate, I'd smile just because James was so happy. I'd continue with useless flings and removing myself from their houses in the morning, to go home and write about every single experience. One day I knew I'd find another guy that made me feel everything during sex. One that I would want to stay in bed with, and one that I actually spent a second night with.

Maybe, in the end, that's all I could hope for. James would be happy, I'd be happy. We'd still be friends, maybe even joke about all the shit we did. And one night we'd get so drunk we'd do it all over again, and in the morning realise the passion was gone long ago. Realise that the night together was a huge mistake. That maybe every single kiss, every single nuzzle, every letter, was a mistake we couldn't fix. We'd drift apart then. James would admit to his wife that we slept together, again, and she'd break it off with him.

I could be selfish and pretend he might come back and ask to stay with me, but in the end, I know he wouldn't. He'd start dating another girl, and I'd wish for another time where he'd just kiss me, and _maybe_ hold me.

And I'd realise I was still possessive the whole time.

I turn off the shower, and I step out. I tried to remember how to do this.

After pulling my same clothes back on, I pick up the bottle. It rattles. I shove it back into my pocket, and slip into my room. The party is tomorrow. All I need to do is get over the anxiety I'll feel tomorrow, and then I'll be fine. I'll forget that a familiar face is missing, I'll just tip back drinks until I crawl back in here and fall asleep.

As thorough as my mum was when she cleaned up the room, it seems she forgot to pick up a lot of stuff.

Mainly, the letter about James's death, and the razor I'd shoved inside the seam of the drawer of the nightstand. I tug it out gently, and go to clean it in the sink. Before I leave, I put the letter back in my nightstand. I would seal up the drawer if I could.

After carefully rinsing it off, I come back into the room and shut the door. I forget it doesn't have a lock.

The last time I did this I saw him, but I'm certain he wouldn't come out now. Not once I'm believing he's alive. I won't conjure up the proper image of James.

The blade slices my wrist. It's not deep, but fuck, it actually hurts this time. I watch blood trickle from the wound, then drag it across again.

I keep at it for a while, leaving shallow cuts going up the lengths of my arms. I stop at my elbow, then move to the right arm.

My left arm has actually scars, left over from previous instances when I harmed myself. No one asks about it. But I'd prefer it stay that way.

I can only place a few more gashes on my right arm, before the door creaks open.

"Alastair?!" My mum rushes over just as I'm pulling my sleeves down.

She hikes them back up, almost tearing a few cuts open as she does so.

"What the fuck are you doing this for?" She breaks the act, before looking up at my expressionless face. "Why are you doing this?!"

I pull my sleeves back down, and grin a little.

"Is that what you yelled when I tried to kill myself?"

Mum leaves the room, trying to hide the fact she wants to storm out and slam the door shut behind her.

I wipe the razor off on my jeans, and gently peel up my sleeves.

Last time I did this I left them open and exposed. It was stupid, but nothing really happened. Now, I go and put toilet paper on every single cut, and pull my sleeves back down.

I'm tipsy, I'm losing blood, it's not good for my personality. I want to go downstairs and wait for James. But, I only have the energy to lie down in bed and fall asleep waiting for him to appear.

* * *

I walk downstairs to find Mum and Dad at the kitchen table. It's almost the exact same scene as when I still lived here.

"Why were you cutting yourself again?" Mum asks, not daring to look up at me.

I pour some water from the pitcher in the fridge, and shrug.

"It was Saturday. It was cold. I was drunk. I felt sad. I lost my brother and my best friend in the same year. I am constantly alone. I want to stop breathing."

My dad groans, and sips his coffee.

Mum rolls her eyes.

"I thought you'd gotten better."

"If I actually wanted to get better I'd have tried. I'm just waiting until I overdose or I drink too much, cut too deep, or my heart just randomly stops."

Mum then ignores me. And I go back upstairs to wait for the party to start.

* * *

Really everyone in the neighbourhood is here. It's not a very big neighbourhood, mind you, but there are about twenty people in the house right now and it's stressful.

I'm sitting all alone in the kitchen, no one wants to go near the queer.

I took a few beers, and now I'm waiting for Dad to come in here and ask me what other diseases I have. Or Mum to come in and try to convince me to go to church with them in the morning.

Really, all I have right now is drinking to excess.

I look over into the living room, and right now I really don't see anyone I recognise. Only Alexandra.

I tip back the last of my beer, and go to stand outside. Maybe freezing temps will be good for me.

Inside, everyone's celebrating and having an amazing time.

But right now, I really just feel like I'm in hell. I'm alone, no one cares about me, everyone I loved is dead and I should just follow them.

Instead, I sit alone on the curb, shivering as I hunch over into myself. I'm alone.

If I sit out here and freeze to death, it would be doing everyone inside a huge favour. I shake beneath my shirt, wondering how long it would take to die from hypothermia.

It would take a long time if you were just sitting outside during a light fall.

Maybe it's not worth it to sit outside.

When I return, Mum looks a bit softer.

"Are you cold?"

"I'll be fine."

I go to sit down in the kitchen, and rest my head in my arms. Mum follows, and sits beside me. She rubs my back for a moment or two, making me a bit uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry about yelling earlier. I'm jut sorry how I've treated you since we first found out."

I look up at her, and shake my head.

"It's fine. It's fine."

"It's not. I've been trying to figure out all about this stuff. About gays, and depression, and self harming." She removes her hand from my back, and I feel a bit less awkward.

"No. It's okay." I look away.

"Alastair, please look at me."

I'm silent.

"Well, then just listen, I suppose."

I just sit, looking away from her and breathing. I'm horrific at confrontation.

"Honey, I love you so much. I couldn't ask for a better son. And I'm glad you've stayed around this long. But I feel horrible that you're depressed and hurting yourself because of James. I wish we could bring him back, because really, you seemed so happy with him. I haven't seen you that happy in years. But, we need to find you other ways to feel better. No one should feel so bad, and live their life in complete misery."

I look over at her, and sigh.

"Thanks, Mum. But, I'm pretty sure that it's just going to keep getting harder and harder as I get older."

I can see she's getting teary-eyed. Now I'm actually starting to feel bad.

"I don't want to see you living the rest of your life like this. Drinking every single day, hiding how you really feel from us. You said you didn't have any other friends. I want you to try making friends, Alastair." She takes my hand. "You need someone close to you in your life. Otherwise you're just going to get worse."

Why is she talking to me? I didn't want her getting involved.

"No one wants to be friends with me. I can't find any friends who will accept me, for being gay, or depressed, or suicidal, or any of that. I can't even find a guy I'd be satisfied spending the rest of my life with. I think it was James."

Mum sniffles, and gets up to get a tissue.

"I'm sorry I was so rude when you two first got together."

"It's okay. We didn't stop seeing each other because of it."

She smiles a little, and places her hand on my cheek.

"You're so handsome now. Why can't you find a boyfriend?"

I shrug. There's really no way to respond to that other than "No guys like me," but I can't say that in front of Mum.

"You know, Alexandra regretted making him join after a few days. We talked about it after he died. She agreed that we should have just let you both be."

I look down at my hands.

"I don't think we'd still be together if he hadn't gone," I say, quite flatly. "I think it was just a phase for him."

Mum shakes her head.

"No. I think I could tell from just how he looked at you, that he loved you quite fondly, Alastair. If he had survived, you two would still be together, without a doubt."

I smile a little, to myself, and I can feel my eyes start to burn. My vision is blurry.

"We said we were going to get a flat together and move in once he came back. He was certain about it. And for years, I kept wanting to believe he'd run away after he came home. Six years ago I lost hope about that. Now I've been hoping to die so I can join him and Lewis."

She hugs me. It's weird. It's still weird, even after it being the second time she's done it.

"I just wish you could be happy."

I sit there, waiting for her to stop hugging me. I really don't want to tell her to stop, or to get off of me, but I really don't like hugging relatives.

Once Mum lets go, she goes off back to the party. And I continue to sit at the kitchen counter, waiting for when I get to go home. Now I really regret coming at all. If it had just been petty arguments, I'd be perfectly fine with that. But now I've admitted so much shit to her, and there's no way I can brush it off.

She tells the party that they'll be exchanging gifts soon, and then she comes back in.

"Do you want to leave?"

I nod a bit.

"Where are you gonna go?"

"Gay club, probably."

"Are they open on Christmas Eve?"

"Yeah. For lonely people like me." I stand up, and go upstairs to grab my wallet.

Mum follows up to the door.

"Are you bringing a boy home?"

"I more often than not go home with them. If I come back home I wasn't lucky."

She goes off into her bedroom, and comes back over, hiding whatever she brought back.

"Make sure to use these, alright?"

She hands me four condoms, and I tense up, laughing a little too awkwardly.

"Mum, I have my own. But, thanks."

She kisses my forehead. "Please just be safe, dear. I don't want you contracting anything."

I nod, and smile.

And my Christmas Eve begins.

* * *

It's surprising to find a gay club actually near the house.

"The Lodge." Alluding to bears, I'd assume. Also discreet enough to hide the fact that it was a gay club in the first place.

I walked in, and unsurprisingly it was quite. Most people have somewhere to be on Christmas Eve.

So I move over towards the bar, scouting out any guy I'd go home with. My standards aren't high, so even some old man who's just wanting to dance could end up bringing me home and plowing me.

The bartender walks over to me, and smiles. He looks older, but he looks still quite friendly. Bald, and wearing a jumper.

"Looking for someone?"

He almost leans forward. I back away visibly, and he stands back.

"No. . .I'm more hoping to see someone who couldn't be here."

He nods. "He's straight?"

I frown.

"I don't want to be sad tonight."

"I'm sorry, pumpkin."

I glance up at him, and furrow my brow in confusion.

"Pumpkin?"

"Has no one ever called you that?" He ducks down to put the glass he was shining back with the others.

"No. I don't think I've ever had a pet name."

He motions to the taps, and I pick one at random.

"I mean, you're cute, I don't see why not."

I do smile a bit, but it fades immediately. So I pick up the mug, and again, I'm drinking.

"In a year I'll be sadder and haggard. But, thanks."

He smiles. He has a very open smile.

"What's your name?" He continues to grin. And the smile is infectious.

I pause a second, and hiccup into my elbow.

"I'm Alastair." I reach my hand across the bar, and he takes it.

We shake hands, and he chuckles heartily.

"I'm Merlin."

I smile even at his name.

"Are you single?" I pull myself forward in my seat, looking up at him now, even a bit more flirty than I originally intended.

He holds up his finger, and pulls out a photograph from his pocket. When he pushes it over to me from across the bar, I can tell right away that I need to apologise.

In it, he's standing beside a shorter-looking man, with curly brown hair and a bright smile standing beside him. The man beside him is also quite handsome, and then I feel a sort of unease build in me. It registers as envy.

"That's Harry. We've been together almost twenty nine years, I think. Dating for twenty eight." He smirks. He takes out another picture, of the both of them, younger and snuggling in close for a picture taken by one of them. Harry is kissing him on the cheek.

"You look very happy," I hold up the picture. Would James and I have been like that? Still close, and still so in love?

"Yes, we are. Recently he retired, so we're planning on going to Italy to celebrate."

I nod, and I can feel myself tearing up, looking between both pictures.

"Are you alright?"

I give Merlin the picture back, and finish my beer quickly.

"My boyfriend died ten years ago. I'm not over it."

He gives a very sympathetic look, and he sighs.

"I'm so sorry. What was his name?"

"James."

Merlin frowns.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

We stop talking after that, and I turn to look over the crowd here.

Two guys, both a bit younger, dancing together. One brunett, one blond, bumping their hips together to the music and moving in to grind towards the end of the song. The blond was stripped down to his trousers, and the brunett is currently having his shirt unbuttoned by the blond.

They grin at each other, they laugh, they kiss everywhere from their lips to their necks to their earlobes before leaving the dance floor.

Otherwise, a few guys scattered amongst tables set off to the side of the dance floor. It wasn't a large club, I'd seen bigger in the city, but it was great to get a view of the two grinding. Now I can see them kissing at their table, hands moving absolutely everywhere.

I look down, and I feel certain that unlike Merlin, and those two guys, I lost my one true love.

Now, I just sit and wait. Until either I feel sober again, or I just feel less sad.

I fold over myself, and wait for the bar to close.

* * *

And now, I feel depressed again.

I get up, and once I walk out the door, I notice the bridge connecting the downtown district to the suburbs. Snowy, and also hanging above a river.

Forgetting my car, I walk out towards it. There's no cars out this late at night, and I find myself standing at the bridge in moments. I lean forward, hands on the banister, staring down into the deep water. It looks ice cold, and I'm tempted to stand on the ledge.

Something inside me tells me to jump. Something else tells me it is worth it.

I honestly wonder if I should go back in the bar and drink a bit longer, or if I should call it a night and go home.

I'm also pretty convinced I should stand up on the ledge and throw myself off.

No. I have to wait until I go home to kill myself. There's no way I'd do it here. Mum would send police to look for me, she'd be worried sick. My only hope was being fucking patient and wait until I could die without worry of anyone worrying.

Once I'm back in the city, no one knows who I am. I have no friends, Mum will call and call, but she'd likely accept it as me either not paying my phone bill or just overall forgetting to check my voicemail.

It'd be so easy to kill myself at home. So, I begin to step back from the ledge.

I decide then to just stare into the water, but I hear a familiar tone.

"Oh my god," his voice is a whisper.

I turn around, and the moment I see him I feel my face twist up in the ugliest way possible.

In this moment, I don't know how to react, I don't know if this really is real.

I'm unsure if I'm actually standing in front of him right now. If I'm really here, he's really here, and we're standing on a bridge together.

He's still, folded up under warm winter clothing, face pink. And he's still just as beautiful as I remember.

"James?" My voice comes out sounding whimpery, but I'm certain I'm smiling large again.

"Alastair," he's quiet, and he comes forward, wrapping me up in a toasty embrace.

I curl up into it, wrapping my arms round him and burying my face into his shoulder. I know I'm crying. I know my eyes are bursting with tears, and that soon I will have to be pried apart from him. He can't be real. He can't be.

"You're not real, are you?" I ask into his shoulder, nuzzled into him as closely as I can be.

James looks down at me, and kisses me softly, holding my cheeks. His hands are hot, and I gladly let him keep them on my face.

"Alastair, I thought I'd never see you again." He rests his nose against mine, grinning at me widely. "Oh my god, I didn't think it was you."

I bring him in, and kiss him hard, hoping it can confirm for me that he's really here right now, and we're really squished up together.

"James," I whisper, tears trailing down my cheeks as I hug him close.

We stand there, breathing heavily, giving each other ridiculous smiles while we look each other over.

"You look tired. Are you sleeping?" He gives a little bit of a laugh, and brushes snow off my shoulders, and ruffles it from my hair. "I haven't been, either, if that makes you feel better."

I give him a tiny smile, and he kisses my cold forehead.

"I missed you. . .where _were_ you?" My brow furrows in worry, and he looks around.

"Is that your car?" He points mine out in an instant.

I nod, and begin leading him over.

"I don't want you freezing. You'd still be cute but I don't want you have to thaw you out."

We both go to sit down in the front seat, and I turn on the heat. We sit up close to each other, and even just this much contact is enough to make my heart want to burst. He wipes my tears from my eyes, and I look up into his eyes. They still manage to make my heart skip a beat. And now, I'm feeling. I can actually feel confused, I don't have that numbness lingering in the back of my mind anymore.

"Alright, it's a bit long of a story. Would you rather we go to your house?"

I shake my head. "Too many people."

He nods, and he scooches in closer.

"So, that last day we fought. That day, every single soldier was sent out into combat, they even shipped in others who'd been scattered across the region. I ended up fighting well, and the last of my mates and I made it out alright. However, there was an older man named James Spencer. It's a commoner name than I thought. So, unfortunately, the people who make up those documents shipped my mum the letter, as opposed to James's family. He got gangrene and died, I, however, made it our virtually unscathed. And I took the train, it let me off at a different station than the other men."

"Why didn't you call? Or write?"

"I decided to hang low a while. I tried calling you, I tried writing you, Alastair. Whatever you were doing, you never got my letters. They all came back, sealed and practically untouched. I was so upset, I thought you hated me or it was your parent's doing."

"I was writing," I try piecing it together. Was my theory actually right?

"For a while I was too nervous to go seek you out. I thought that you wanted to live with me after the war. So I was devastated. I thought we weren't going to see each other again after we'd be torn apart months beforehand. I've been coming back round here every now and again for the past few years, trying to find you. I don't want to see my mum, I didn't want to see your parents. I just wanted to find you."

I smile, and lean up to kiss him again. He pulls me in a bit closer, and grins. That perfect grin. His eyes that brightened when he would look at me. So utterly perfect.

"I moved away six years ago. After I finished my book, I was afraid everyone in town would hate me so I left. I didn't think there was anything left here for me."

"You wrote a book?"

"Yes. I. . .I wrote it about you."

It takes a moment for him to react. He grins, and he hugs me close.

"I never thought you'd write about me. Was it successful?" He pulls away, and I can feel my cheeks light up pink while he stares at me.

"It sold thousands of copies. But, it's not true now."

"Well, then that means you can write a sequel. All about how I ended up alive and what I was doing without you for ten years."

I laugh gently, and snuggle up to him.

"I write under pseudonyms, now. For all they know, Alastair McIntosh doesn't exist."

He takes my hand. In only a few moments, and everything in my life has changed again. But, this time, it is arguably for the better.

"There's a Christmas party at home. Do you want to go and tell your story to everyone in the neighbourhood?"

I begin to pull out, but James shakes his head.

"Let's leave. Can I stay at your place?"

"It's not clean."

"You've been in my room, Alastair."

He smiles, and I can feel myself grin brightly as I pull out onto the highway. As we drive, James switches between stations sporadically. Every other song he's flipping stations, and eventually settles on a station dedicated to love songs.

The lights above us pass over our bodies, and during a few songs, James will sing under his breath, grabbing onto my knee gently while he sings.

* * *

It's almost three in the morning when we reach home. We're both horrendously tired, and I can barely keep my eyes open. I unlock the flat, and after locking it back up again, with the both of us inside, I guide him to the bedroom.

My bed looks messy in a good way, I guess. Comforter crumpled up on top of the bed, pillows slightly askew. Then, I still feel like James is judging me for being messy.

I don't even know if I feel uncomfortable dressing down in front of him anymore. It's a bit hard watching him strip down to his briefs. Why am I suddenly so uncomfortable around the guy who I lost my virginity to and pined after for ten years?

He looks worried, but, I do start taking off my shirt. Then I remember why.

My scars are still fresh, now scabbing, so I go to change my shirt.

After taking off my trousers and replacing them with pyjama bottoms, I feel comfortable again.

"Are you alright?" He looks a bit concerned, and I am upset about it.

I shake my head, and cuddle up to him, resting my head against his shoulder.

"It's strange being around you again."

He smiles, kissing the top of my head and pulling me in closer.

"I was waiting for the day we'd see each other again," he whispers, and we both sit down in bed. "I was waiting for the day I'd see you, all grown up and happy and successful."

I pull up the covers, and place them up to my waist.

"I guess." I shrug, and grin gently. "I'm happier now that you're back. It's still setting in that you're not imaginary."

James leans in, and catches my lips, and I move my hand up to cup his cheek.

We kiss for a while, this is comfortable, this is familiar and this is all I could want. Now, I don't feel so profoundly empty. I actually can feel myself begin to perk up for the first time in months. My first smiles that hurt my face. And now it all feels right.

"Please don't die again," I joke, as he presses his lips down my beck, making me moan gently.

"I wouldn't hold my breath on that." He pulls up my shirt, kissing down my torso.

I squirm, and he licks up my chest for good measure.

Simply due to the fact I'm tired, I pull him back up, level with me, and begin to cuddle up with him. He accepts this, arms wrapping round me and pulling me in. His chin rests atop my head, and we snuggle closely together.

"I love you so much, Alastair," he whispers into my hair. I can tell he's just as tired, now.

"I love you, James."

I never thought I'd ever say those words again.

* * *

I've been awake for thirteen minutes, and the whole time I've been staring at James. Out of everything I could think to do with him, I insist of snuggling up together in bed and watching him while he wakes up. I couldn't think of anything else better to do, apparently.

Really, I've been worrying about James seeing my scars. I don't think I want him to know about the self harm, the drinking, the painkillers, anything like that. But, he's likely to find out.

I move in a bit closer, and kiss his forehead.

In some ways I might be a little uncomfortable with him still, and it really hasn't settled in that he's alive and that we're together again. Maybe I was more comfortable with my dumb fantasies that weren't true anyway. Mum was right about James, he wasn't the type who'd leave me.

It'll just take some time to rekindle that same spark from ten years ago. That's just fine.

His eyelids flutter, and soon he's squinting his eyes open, and he sees me.

"You look like an angel. What have you done to Alastair?" He says between yawns.

I grin, and lean in to kiss him. He already is perfectly comfortable again. Maybe because he didn't spend years believing I was dead and we'd never see each other again.

Maybe I'm just used to being alone. But, being with James is _much_ better than being alone.

"I didn't think to get you anything for Christmas," I laugh gently, and James holds me closer.

"Well I didn't, either. But being with you again is all I could ever ask for."

We stay snuggled up like this, kissing lazily and falling asleep again after thirty minutes of relatively quiet kissing.

* * *

It's no longer strange being with James again. Now it feels like I am whole, and I no longer normally feel that same emptiness I did before we saw each other again that night on the bridge.

We can wake up now, and not be shocked to see each other in the same bed. When we pass throughout the flat, I don't believe he's a ghost of my James. And now, we are happier than we'd been months prior.

He has a job, I write and earn enough to pay for the flat. At night we both curl up in bed, or we both fall in while getting in the mood. In either case, the night ends with the both of us tangling our legs together, twisting around in bed and waking up lying atop one another.

I stopped drinking as much when James came back. First it was just down to three a day, slowly two, and now I'm at one drink whenever I'm actually in the mood for it. James doesn't smoke anymore, either. He gave it up cold turkey a long time ago.

With James back I found myself on an actual schedule, remembering to eat, shower, sleep, everything. We'd curl up on the couch, sleeping, reading, or watching the telly as we laced our fingers together and basked in the feeling of pure closeness.

This is what I had always wanted. And now life isn't as bad as it was when I believed he was dead.

I still felt bad from time to time, and really it was to be expected.

I'd spend the day alone, waiting for him to come home, to hug him round his shoulders and to be certain he'd survived the trip home from work.

Without words we'd express worry, and we'd become inseparable until one of us had to leave again. Something had changed, there was no way this is how we were before.

James would wake up in the wee hours of the morning, and sit up in bed for hours. Motionless, not saying a word.

I rarely would wake up when he had nightmares, I couldn't comfort him when he'd wake up needing to be held and enwrapped. For him, night wasn't comforting. He only really opened up around me, and the select few friends he'd made at work. James would hold back emotions around me, when he knew I had my own problems and he didn't want me becoming absorbed in his. It made me feel selfish to not worry about him.

"If I wake up at night, and I don't immediately go back to sleep, just ignore it." He told me one day, while I was sticking my hand under the shower head.

"Why? Don't you want me to do something?" I glance over at him, and he comes over to me, leaning in and kissing me softly.

"Please, just stay asleep. You're cranky without it," he smiles, brushing his thumb against my cheekbone.

Sometimes I wonder what we'd be like if he never went to war. We'd be together. We'd both be happy, we'd both be dancing in the middle of our horribly-cramped living room, we'd be optimistic. No emotional problems, no health problems. We wouldn't hide our worst selves from each other.

* * *

It is odd to think that I haven't fully recovered from my sadness yet.

James and I are together. We're happy. But still I feel a darkness looming over my shoulders that I can't shake away. My flirtations with death are becoming frequent, and I don't know what I am to do about it.

Anti-depressants are a waste of money, when you go through different brands and different chemicals entirely every few weeks to make yourself feel less unhappy to still be alive.

James has no clue that I still feel this way. During the day I get to take it out on myself, so he won't worry.

His "death" impacted me to a point of no return. I'll never be able to be as content with life as I was before. I want to be able to be happy with James, I want to smile with him and I want to feel normal. I don't want morbid comments to slip out and I don't want him to be so desperately worried that something is wrong.

It hurts, feeling suicidal again.

Numbness, that's all it becomes. It fogs my brain and it wants to consume me. I have not much that I can think to do.

James would want me to go to therapy, to talk to other people and try to get better through talking. He'd want me to get better. I don't deserve someone as supportive as him.

So, I'm going to tell him that I'm feeling sad. I'm only going to say that I'm unhappy, and I don't know what to do about it.

I lie beside him, breathing shallowly and staring at him with large eyes. I didn't intend to, but I didn't know what I was supposed to do. Am I really going to tell him I'm suicidal again?

"I love you," I say quietly.

He grins, and kisses me softly, and I take a bit of solace when I'm in his grasp. I try to hold him closer, but he pulls away to lie back in bed, and stare back down at me.

"You're tearing up," he's quiet right back.

I sniffle gently, and look away.

"Alastair?" He moves forward, and I now I can't keep my head from swimming.

I don't know what I'm going to do. One part of me wants to brush it off, another part to leave. But I'm stupid, and choose to tell him.

Turning back to him, I see his face. Oh god, I didn't want to see his face. Twisted up, into a saddened expression. I look away. I don't want to see James crying. Not over me being upset.

"What would you do if I said I was still suicidal?"

He stops, then he rests his head on my shoulder, wrapping his arms around me. Other than that, he does nothing. His back shakes, but when I wrap my arms around him, he settles just a bit.

"Please tell me you aren't."

"James-"

"One of us has to be alright, Alastair. I want you happy, please, please tell me it's just a hypothetical." His face is turning hot. I rest my head on top of his, my cheek settling against his mussed-up hair.

"I wanted to tell you because you always are supportive and you always try to help."

James exhales, yet says nothing.

"Really all I want is to be happy, for the both of us to be happy. It's so moronic wishing for that, isn't it?" He murmurs to himself.

I kiss his head. Of course, I begin to feel tears streak down my cheeks. Of course.

"I wish we still were happy."

James looks up, and cups my cheeks, staring me in the face. I wish he wouldn't. I don't want to have this conversation face to face.

"What should I do?" His face is distraught, it doesn't exactly alleviate me of my sobbing.

"I don't know. I don't know what to do, James. I won't do it."

He looks down, and he sits back, then.

"Alastair, I love you so much. It hurts seeing you in pain." He offers for me to lie in his arms and go to sleep.

I do so, neck resting on his arm, and watch him with tired, weepy eyes. He looks down, he wipes my tears with his thumb and keeps wiping them away while I continue to cry. All he wants right now is to keep me in his sight. And I don't blame him.

For hours we lie like this, move under the covers, snuggle against each other. James holds me tightly, and I don't try to squirm away. I find comfort in his embrace.

When we've been quiet a while, James tells me he's been feeling the same way since he was sent home. I wrap my arms loosely round his neck, and hold him close, face buried in his chest. He pets down my back, and soon we're back where we started.

In the end, we're two grown, naked men, lying in each other's arms, wiping away each other's tears, worrying the other will die the next time we close our eyes. We'll likely never be able to recover from it. We'll always be sad, we'll always cry when the other isn't around. We'll wake up at night, refusing to tell the other that we've had a bad dream, or that we're numb. Soon we'll stop discussing emotions to each other until we both burst, and soon I'll wonder if James is still suicidal, and he'll wonder the same about me.

On good days we're perfectly normal. James is funny, and loving, and holds me. We get drunk and dance in the living room, we get drunk and have rough sex until we both fall asleep. When we both wake up, we're still in an afterglow and snuggle under the covers like some couple on TV.

And on bad days, we don't speak. We both go about our days, and when we both are in bed, me after James, we still snuggle up, but there's no kisses and nuzzles. "I love you, goodnight."

I stop hoping I'll recover after a while. I still know that something happens in me when I see James, and he still brightens up when we're together. Our love has become nonchalant and understated. When we have neutral days, I wait all day for him to come back. I stand by the door for three minutes every hour, hoping he'll step through and I'll feel myself melt when I see him.

By the time it's 1993 and we're thirty and thirty-two, we both are feeling better. James isn't having as many bad dreams. I'm not constantly reminding myself of suicide tips. We express love to each other daily. James is happier at his job. I'm writing again.

We cuddle into bed every night, we kiss and nuzzle and we're soft with each other again. He hasn't told me since that night he was suicidal, and now he's proving that he's recovering. I slowly realised my symptoms were disappearing, until I reached the point where I could function again.

* * *

"Do you think you'd ever want to get married?" James questions, and I shrug to myself.

"We're basically married, James. If you want we could just buy the rings and have our own ceremony."

He sits down beside me, and takes my hand.

"You'd actually want to marry me?" His smile is small, but he's excited, and I know it.

I kiss him on the cheek, and nod.

"I've loved you for thirteen years. I consider you my soulmate, and you've stuck with me when times got rough. There's no one else I'd rather marry." I grin back, though I think the expression still feels weird on my face.

He hugs me, nearly crushing the life out of me. I nuzzle my cheek against his neck, slowly snaking my arms up to hug back, as well. He smells musky, still, like he just got out of the shower.

"I love you so much, Alastair," his voice is quiet, and he kisses absolutely everywhere on my face. "I'm so glad I'm your soulmate."

And it doesn't feel bad anymore. Now I haven't been sad in three months and I feel just fine. Lying on the couch with James beneath me, pressing lazy kisses into his jaw.

"Okay, I think I've got it," he grins, sitting up slightly. I still lie on him, head on his chest and listening to his heart.

"Go ahead."

"From the day we met, I knew you were significant. You didn't talk to me. You looked all nervous because an older boy was talking to you. And I'm so lucky that you came back the next day and told me you were sorry for being scared. When we grew closer I was worried that you'd be put-off when I wanted to be close with you. And I was worried when I started realising that my feelings weren't so simple as platonically caring about you. My dad talked to me about it a long time before he died. He told me that I shouldn't have been so scared. That I shouldn't have hid them and rejected them as long as I did. I came over one day to tell you I was in love with you. But I thought it'd creep you out, so when we fell asleep in your bed that night, I watched you and wished I hadn't been so stupid. That's creepier in hindsight, actually," he laughs, and I tilt my head up.

When he looks down at me, I feel that rosy sting of love I'd missed for years.

"But, when I started working up the courage to tell you, I thought it was pointless. I knew you were smart enough to catch on to the fact. So I didn't say anything. One night, I remember my mum brought you in one night, after you ran straight to our house because your parents were fighting. You immediately asked to see me. When you saw me, I saw your face light up. I felt so happy then. I'm so glad I was there to hold you until you weren't teary-eyed anymore.

"I thought I'd done something wrong that day we first kissed. That maybe I'd ruined our whole friendship because I'd kissed you. I'm so glad you kissed back."

"There's not one reason I wouldn't kiss you back," I grin gently, looking back down and resting against his chest.

"The day we reunited, after so long of not seeing each other, I thought I'd forgotten I loved you. But then I saw you and remembered all over again. I don't think I went about it properly, but here we are. I only wanted to keep you with me, I wanted to make sure I never lost you again. And then you wanted to keep talking with me. When we started hanging out again I was so relieved. I'm happy we got back together. But once we were apart again, when I couldn't reach you and couldn't go home, it hurt so badly. Every morning I woke up missing you, and every night I wished you were with me. I'd begun losing hope around the time I found you again. I didn't realise you'd changed so much in all those years I was gone, but I don't care. It was strange seeing you on that bridge, seeing you all grown up, still looking utterly beautiful. You're still so gorgeous, I can't even begin to figure out how I express it."

I lean in, and shut him up with a kiss. Holding his jaw, opening his mouth and hoping he'd just get to the point.

When I'd removed my lips from him, he smiled. He cupped my cheek, and brushed my cheekbone with his thumb.

"I guess that was my idea of a proposal speech. But, Alastair McIntosh, would you 'marry' me?"

I never thought I'd hear that question in my life, and for a second I am just frozen, with a dumb look on my face. Like it's processing that James proposed to me. That I actually just got proposed to by the man I knew I wanted the rest of my life with. And that he'd made up a whole speech for me, just to make it more official.

A smile creeps onto my lips, and I grab him close, hugging him tightly.

"I will," I say, muffled against his skin.

He puts no ring on my finger, but still it is a legitimate proposal. We can't legally marry, but still, he's proposed to me. I never thought I'd be lucky enough to even have a boyfriend who'd be living with me. One who's first action in the morning was to kiss my forehead before he got up. One who I was convinced I'd never have a chance with.

I even just feel glad enough that we're both happy and together, thirteen years of loving each other, regardless of distance. And maybe one day James will make good on said proposal, but calling James my 'fiancee' is more than I thought I'd ever get in life.


End file.
